


Doldrums

by glasscannon, Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Series: All Hands [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 02, Alternate Season/Series 03, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, F/M, Gen, Gratuitous Sailing Details, M/M, No we mean SLOW burn, Pining, Pirates, Separation, Slow Burn, Slower than that, even s l o w e r, tallship sailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-01-19 19:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12416364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasscannon/pseuds/glasscannon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: He had to let her go. Billy had known that for weeks, had nevernotknown it, had reminded himself over and over, during his time with her on the ship and then at the homestead, that she was never his to hold or to release. But it had never kicked him in the chest as much as it did in this moment.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! We have missed our shipmates in this wonderful little rowboat, and we can't wait to show you all what we have planned for this story. Here we go -- secure your lifelines, we're heading into the storm!

_October 1715_

He had to let her go. Billy had known that for weeks, had never _not_ known it, had reminded himself over and over, during his time with her on the ship and then at the homestead, that she was never his to hold or to release. But it had never kicked him in the chest as much as the moment when the Navy prat offered her his arm, and she took it. This was her life now, offered an escort by eager young Navy Lieutenants, Society men, gentlemen. Not traipsing around with pirates.

Mrs. Barlow squeezed his forearm through his jacket when she accepted his arm, giving him a quick glance of sympathy, and oh, he was being _far_ too transparent, that was for sure. He resolved to be the dependable brick wall that he'd been sent to be, here to keep the ladies safe in this hostile environment. There'd be time to feel resentful and envious of Lt. Harrison later, once he and Mrs. Barlow were back on the ship and they were safely underway.

The thought served him well when Harrison went so far as to draw Miss Abby's attention to the gallows erected in front of the courthouse in the city's central square. He could dream about punching the man later, and he was already looking forward to it. The way Miss Abby spoke up, though, put the man in his place and defended them at the same time — Billy felt a rush of pride and affection for her. Next to him, Mrs. Barlow had a proud gleam in her eyes.

It wasn't very far of a walk, Charles Town not being much larger than Nassau, and all too soon a large, fancy house with over-manicured gardens came into view. He imagined this might be what the governor's house in Nassau had looked like, back when Nassau had had a governor, before the house and the rest of the island had fallen into the hands of pirates.

The fancy-pants Lieutenant excused himself from Miss Abby long enough to go knock on the door, and Billy felt Mrs. Barlow's hand tighten briefly on his arm, as though reminding him to stay still, to not move to offer Miss Abby his arm instead. Mrs. Barlow reached out with her free hand to clasp Miss Abby's hand for a moment, and Billy had to settle for looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

The front doors opened and all too quickly they were ushered inside, Miss Abby back on the arm of the Lieutenant as uniformed servants led them through the house, through another pair of doors to a large room, where a grey-haired man was sitting behind the desk. He looked up at the butler's brief introduction, and then stood, his gaze fixed on Miss Abby.

"Oh my Lord, _Abigail_ ," he said, and Billy realised this must be her father. He seemed relieved to see her at least, Billy thought, as Miss Abby broke away from the Navy idiot to go to her father, hugging him. Billy had secretly wondered if the man might treat her in person the way he had referred to her in his letters, like a barrel gone missing from a warehouse. He was grudgingly pleased to see that didn't appear to be the case, at least.

"Mrs. Wilson will see to it that you can bathe and dress properly," Lord Ashe said, when they separated.

Mrs. Barlow's hand tightened on Billy's arm briefly, and he remembered the pains she had taken, and the significant expense on a limited budget, to ensure that Miss Abby had something to wear that would pass muster here.

"I have some things to handle in the meantime," Lord Ashe continued, "but I will see you at dinner, alright?"

_Dinner_. Which would almost certainly happen after the evening turn of the tide, and to which he and Mrs. Barlow almost certainly weren't invited. Billy wondered if Miss Abby had caught that, and then tried to put the thought from his mind.

A short, maternal looking woman entered through a second door, going immediately to put her arms around Miss Abby as well, and for a moment Billy was confused, because Miss Abby's mother— but no, this must be Lord Ashe's housekeeper, surely, someone Miss Abby recognised from her childhood in England, nothing more. He watched as she led Miss Abby out of the room without a backwards glance, watched as the door closed behind them with a soft click, and had to drop his gaze to the floorboards to keep from staring. Some unreasonably hopeful part of him wanted to think that maybe she would be back in a few minutes, once she had a chance to settle here. But the larger part of him knew it was unlikely, that the household staff had swept her away on purpose. Knew that was probably the last he would ever see of Miss Abigail Ashe.

With Miss Abby gone, her father turned his icy gaze toward Mrs. Barlow, and Billy wrenched his attention around to the task in front of them, this last ditch effort to plead Flint's case before Lord Ashe. His own yawning heartache could wait until they were safely back aboard ship. Mrs. Barlow, for her part, was looking at the large ornate clock by the wall when Lord Ashe turned to address them.

"Miranda," Lord Ashe said, inclining his head once. "I thank you for returning Abigail to me. I wish we did not have to meet under such circumstances, but I must warn you, the longer Flint stays in the harbour, the less I can guarantee his safety. Can I arrange a carriage to take you back to the quayside?"

Mrs. Barlow took a step forward, and Billy had to smother the urge to keep pace with her. They were as safe here in this house as anywhere in this city, and a show of distrust could hardly help that.

"Peter," she said, voice friendly but more formal than Billy was used to hearing, "I had hoped we might talk. We won't detain you long, we know how anxious you must be to rejoin your daughter."

Lord Ashe's gaze flicked between them, then he said, "And your… companion?"

"Mr. William Manderly," Mrs. Barlow introduced him, gesturing him forward to stand beside her. "He was instrumental in rescuing Abigail from her kidnappers and returning her to your side."

Lord Ashe looked at him a long moment, and Billy tried to remain still, to neither respond to what felt like a challenge in the man's eyes, nor quail in the presence of someone who had hanged so many pirates. Finally Lord Ashe nodded and waved them into the seats facing the desk, and asked his servants — and the Navy prat — to clear the room.

His gaze again cut to Billy before settling on Mrs. Barlow. "I did read the letters, despite what you may think. My daughter is an eloquent and persuasive writer, when she wants to be. But for her sake, I think it would be best if we all agree that her words were coerced by Captain Flint. She cannot be held responsible for anything in those letters."

"If we are able to come to an agreement on the pardons issue, there will be no need for any of that," Mrs. Barlow said smoothly.

Lord Ashe's expression turned sour. "I'm sorry, Miranda, it is out of the question."

"What James and I are proposing is identical to what Thomas hoped to accomplish, all those years ago," Mrs. Barlow said, her voice even. "The redemption of Nassau, a return of her citizenry to the arms of England, in accordance with the principles to which you and I and James and Thomas committed ourselves. There is as much need for it now as there was then."

"Miranda," Lord Ashe said, holding up a hand to cut her off. "I know what James wants, and I understand why he wants it. It simply isn't possible. It was impossible when Thomas was still alive, when we still had James to sway the Navy, when I didn't have to wait months for my words to reach London. Now? It is beyond unreachable."

"I disagree. James and I believe that we stand in a better position now than we did then. England and Spain are no longer at war, and Nassau continues to flourish."

"With more than twice the number of criminals on the island, now," Ashe shot back. "And a failed economy, rather than a failing one. Am I to believe that more than five hundred hardened pirate raiders would fall in line with this plan, volunteer their labour?"

"What you didn't have before was one of the most respected captains in Nassau standing in advocacy of pardons," Billy said, wondering halfway through the sentence what had possessed him to speak at all. "Where Flint leads, Nassau will follow."

"And there are existing power structures in place that could be leveraged by the fledgling colony," Mrs. Barlow said while Lord Ashe was still staring at Billy in quiet shock, like Billy was a dog who'd suddenly learned to speak. "The trade boss of Nassau also stands in support of the plan for pardons. Transforming New Providence into a healthy, functioning colony requires only our commitment to backing the plan Thomas laid out."

Lord Ashe watched them a long moment, his expression stony. "What proportion of the pirates of Nassau would follow Flint in a plan like this, do you think?" he asked, directing his question to Billy and sounding unconvinced.

"Three-quarters, possibly more," Billy said, trying to keep his tone easy. "Enough to convince the others to fall in line, or else find a new port to call home." He glanced briefly at Mrs. Barlow, and found her looking to the clock against the wall again, while Lord Ashe's attention was on Billy. He wished he had some covert way to tell her that he was well aware of the time, of when the tide shift would come. He wasn't about to let the _Revenge_ stay in the harbour any longer than necessary.

"Of the entire crew of that warship in your harbour," Billy went on, his gaze finding Lord Ashe's again, "we only had one man decide he'd be better off with another crew. The rest opted to follow Flint. They believe in this plan enough to put their necks on the line to bring your daughter back to you."

"While I _appreciate_ the risk your crew took in rescuing Abigail and bringing her to Charles Town," Lord Ashe said carefully, "one good deed does not outweigh years of crime and depravity." His eyes cut to Mrs. Barlow, expression stern. "What role does James McGraw have to play in all of this?"

From the corner of his vision, Billy saw Mrs. Barlow straighten slightly in her seat. He didn't know the name _McGraw_ , but clearly she did.

"Surely we still have some allies in London," she said.

"Who would stand with you now? Unlikely," Lord Ashe said. "James may be well respected in Nassau, but he _is not_ respected in London. His backing of this plan may in fact be a mark against it rather than in favour. The things he has done, Miranda…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Thomas always knew we would need to make an ally of a captain of high standing in Nassau," Mrs. Barlow said. "Ten years ago, that probably would have been Edward Teach. Now it is James Flint. The plan is still exactly as Thomas conceived it — and a man without sin has no need of a pardon."

"Perhaps if he had conducted himself, these last ten years, as a man who intended to pursue this plan, we might have been able to make a case for it. If he had held himself to the standards of a privateer and only attacked ships loyal to countries England is at war with. But he has attacked ships flying the British colours more often than not, killed citizens of the Crown, he has fired on the Navy! There is no one in London now who would back _James McGraw_ , given the man he's become."

Ah.

"And yet all of that was true of Edward Teach, as well," Mrs. Barlow replied.

"What about the murder of Lord Alfred Hamilton?" Lord Ashe demanded.

Beside him, Mrs. Barlow stiffened. "You cannot hold that against James."

"Why not? Because of the fondness he felt for Thomas?" Lord Ashe shot back, snide. "Your father-in-law was traveling in secret, under an assumed name. James would have had to hunt him down—"

"A few weeks after your letter informing us of Thomas's death arrived," Mrs. Barlow cut him off, voice deceptively calm, "I received another letter, from an old servant with whom I'd kept in touch. She mentioned innocently that Alfred was traveling, and she mentioned the name of the ship. I was devastated by the news of Thomas's death, as you can imagine, and not in the best state of mind. I showed the letter to James, I encouraged him to seek out the _Maria Aleyne_. We were grieving, and we were angry. The damage wrought by Alfred Hamilton was simply too great to bear. Peter, I ask that you not judge us by that one act of grief and vengeance, but rather by the ends we hope to accomplish."

Lord Ashe leaned back and regarded Mrs. Barlow for a long moment, as Billy's mind quickly connected up several disparate pieces of information: the nature of Flint's past in London, what Morley had told Billy about the _Maria Aleyne_ and Mrs. Barlow's role in its capture, the missing thread that seemed to connect Flint's actions with regard to both the pardons and the Urca gold before that. Whatever had happened to Mrs. Barlow's husband Thomas, his death had sent Flint on a path that he was still following, its influence still felt nearly ten years later.

"It is not my judgement you need fear," Lord Ashe said finally. "But rather that of Parliament, of London, of Society as a whole. I know well the personal history at play in the siege of the _Maria Aleyne_ , but Society does not. Any path forward, any _hope_ of succeeding would require an airing of that history publicly, and I cannot imagine James would go along with that. And even then, the hurdles we would face — it would not be quick, nor easy."

Mrs. Barlow hesitated before asking, "And if James was willing to accept those terms?"

Lord Ashe took a deep breath and sighed it out. "It might still be impossible. But there might be a path forward, if we approach it slowly, and with caution, and if James is willing to admit to his crimes. I will think on it. Tell James that if he wishes to write to me, I will read his letters. More than that I cannot promise."

The clock by the wall chimed the hour, interrupting them, and they had to pause to wait for its extravagant bells to cease. From the corner of his eye, Billy could see Mrs. Barlow clasp her hands in her lap, out of the vision of Lord Ashe, her knuckles straining white against her skin.

She drew a deep breath as if to speak, but then got to her feet instead, chair scraping harshly against the floor, her motions much less elegant and restrained than before. Billy stood as well, holding his breath for a moment, feeling as if a fuse had been lit somehow. He hid his alarm, unsure where the danger was actually coming from and what had ratcheted it up so suddenly.

"We shouldn't take up any more of your time, Peter," Mrs. Barlow said when the echoes of the clock died away, smiling in a way that seemed too crisply polite to be genuine. "Please convey our best hopes to Abigail. I would have wished for happier circumstances, but it was a joy to have her stay with me, however briefly."

Lord Ashe nodded, and then rang for the butler to show them out. Mrs. Barlow took Billy's offered arm, and they followed the butler to the entrance, observed warily by several of the house staff. She leaned on his arm with an uncomfortably tight grip as they went down the steps outside, and he glanced at her with concern. She hadn't needed that kind of support before.

"We need to be away from here with as much haste and as little fuss as we can manage," Mrs. Barlow whispered to him as she leaned in, ostensibly for support. They walked away from the house, she maintaining her white-knuckled grip on his forearm.

"We have time before the tide turns, ma'am," he murmured, hoping to reassure her.

"It is not the tide that concerns me."

Billy felt his neck itch as they began walking down the drive, and had to resist the urge to look back to check if there wasn't a rifle aimed at them. If there was, there'd be nothing they could do about it. They had to hope Lord Ashe was at least good on his word to let them go, that he wouldn't kill the people who had returned his daughter to him. After Mrs. Barlow's words just now, Billy's trust in that was plummeting.

The other reason was even more pointless. Miss Abby would not be watching them through some window, looking to get one last glimpse. She had moved on into her new life now, and that was as it ought to be.

The walk back to the docks took longer than the walk to the Governor's house had seemed to, and when they finally arrived, the scene at the jetty was tense, twelve militiamen guarding the _Revenge_ crew that was still waiting in the boat. Billy didn't waste time or words, just helped Mrs. Barlow into the boat, untied the lines, and then they were pushing off. The men rowed hard, all of them uncomfortable being within rifle distance of the men ashore.

They made it back to the ship without incident, the shared and unspoken anxiety of each of them in the launch speeding them across the harbour. The process of raising the boat on the davits seemed to take an unreasonably long time, and as they passed by the gundecks on their way up, Billy could hear the crew from just behind the closed gunports, sounding just as anxious to be away as were the rest of them.

Billy wanted to be away from Charles Town and Lt. Harrison and the sight of gallows in the town square. He just wished there was one person they didn't _have_ to leave behind.

Flint came out on deck as Billy was helping Mrs. Barlow out of the boat, and Billy saw her give him a tiny shake of her head as soon as they met eyes. Billy didn't think anybody had really expected a positive outcome from this meeting, but the Captain still looked a little more grim. As soon as Mrs. Barlow was safely on board, she walked toward the salon without a word.

Once the launch was secured, Flint ordered the men to brace the main so they were no longer hove-to, and as the ship began to gather way, had them set the main course, adding on a knot or two to their speed. From the murmurs of the men, Billy wasn't the only one who was relieved to see Charles Town in their wake, though he suspected he was more conflicted about it than most.

The air on deck remained tense as they slowly left the harbour, a collective held breath until they were out of the range of the shore guns. Once they looked to be getting away safely, Lord Ashe seemingly keeping his promise to allow them to leave his harbour without incident, the men stopped anxiously looking back, finally focusing more on the sailing than on Charles Town shrinking behind them. Billy knew it was what Miss Abby had wanted for them, but it didn't make it any easier to sail away from her.

When Flint was certain they were clear of Charles Town's guns, he turned command over to Billy and followed Mrs. Barlow into the salon. Billy supposed Mrs. Barlow did have plenty to fill him in on.

A few moments later their voices drifted up through the quarterdeck hatch, and Billy sent most of the men forward to coil up lines, to give the Captain and Mrs. Barlow what privacy there was to be found aboard ship. Their words were indistinct over all the other noise on deck, but Billy caught snippets of their conversation without really meaning to eavesdrop.

"He again refused to consider it," he heard Mrs. Barlow say, "for all the reasons we thought he would refuse, and a few others besides. He did seem open to— oh, it hardly matters. We can't trust him. Perhaps we were foolish to ever believe we could trust Peter Ashe."

Flint asked something Billy didn't catch, his voice sharp with worry. Thinking back over their conversation with Lord Ashe, Billy tried to pinpoint when Mrs. Barlow had come to that conclusion about the man. By the time they left the house something had clearly been bothering her, but he could think of no particular moment it might have begun.

He could hear the Captain and Mrs. Barlow talking still, but Billy focused on the shallows by the river entrance, calling adjustments to the helmsman until he was confident they'd make it through the deepest channel.

"Any more to do, boss?" Miller, one of the new guys, called to Billy.

"We'll be closehauled all the way back, we'll be bashing about. Go and make a round and seafast everything you find," Billy ordered. "And if you can't find anything, go see Mr. De Groot."

There, that ought to keep the guy busy for a while.

"That clock now resides in Peter's study," was the next phrase that caught Billy's ear, Mrs. Barlow biting out the words neatly. He immediately thought of the clock he had seen her look at repeatedly, and the way she'd clasped her hands together until her knuckles turned white, the way she had gripped his arm as they made their way to the quay. He hesitated where he stood, listening for a moment.

"You're _sure_?" Flint asked, tone harsh.

"Once it chimed the hour, quite sure," Mrs. Barlow replied. "And if we did not gift it to Peter, it must have been Thomas's father who did so, after we left. But Peter and Alfred were never close, hardly had any social… All… position… the Carolinas… been appointed by Alfred — and he arrived in Charles Town barely a year after we settled on New Providence. Only a few months after his letter informing us of Thomas's death arrived from London."

Billy felt the growing sense of trepidation like a line of dark clouds on the horizon. There had been something else going on in Lord Ashe's study, something beyond Miss Abby or the pardons, something that he had caught the faintest edge of. He'd assumed it was to do with Lord Ashe's history with Mrs. Barlow's late husband and Flint, but why that should upset her so and how exactly it connected to the clock, Billy didn't know.

The salon was silent for a while, and as they cleared the shallows surrounding the entrance to Charles Town he called for the yards to be braced so they could steer as close to a south-south-east course as the wind would allow.

"It never sat well with me," he heard Mrs. Barlow say next, as the noise on deck died down, her voice crisp and even, "how quickly the whole thing happened, how soon Thomas was taken away. They would never have done so based only on rumors and speculation. They would have needed the word of someone who knew us well, someone who had been inside our home, who had seen us together. It must have been Peter. I see no other alternative."

He was in the midst of calling a correction to the helmsman when the realisation settled in his gut like a cold stone: Lord Ashe had betrayed Flint and Mrs. Barlow and her late husband at some point in their shared past, in whatever calamity had sent them away from London a decade ago. Lord Ashe must not have realised that Mrs. Barlow had discovered his betrayal, but now that Flint knew, any hope of building an alliance with the man was dead, and with it the plan for pardons.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me this before we left the harbour?" Flint demanded, all but yelling, and Billy was glad he'd sent the duty watch forward.

"And what would you have done, had I told you the moment I came on board?" Billy heard Mrs. Barlow ask.

"We have over a hundred guns on this ship, Miranda. I can think of quite a few things I would have done."

"Which is precisely my point! You would have fired on that city, with Abigail in it."

"You should have taken her and left, the moment you realised—"

"She had long been swept out of the room by that point— did you really think Peter would have allowed her any involvement in that conversation?" Mrs. Barlow shot back. "And even if we'd somehow found her, Peter never would have let us leave that house alive, neither Billy nor I! And then you would have been forced to fire on Charles Town, without knowing the true reason, _and_ with Abby still in the city."

Billy cringed to himself, but he knew she was right. As much as his gut reaction was with Flint, to take Miss Abby from her traitorous father and get the hell away from Charles Town, Mrs. Barlow was right, Lord Ashe never would have let them leave alive if he had so much as suspected they meant to take Miss Abby with them.

One of the lookouts called down the sighting of a sail in their wake that caused renewed tension on deck, and Billy lost track of the conversation taking place in the salon below. At one point, Mrs. Barlow snapped, loud enough to catch Billy's ear, "Do not make me be _him_ , James!" but his attention remained largely on the distant sail.

"He's turning north!" the lookout finally called from the crows' nest, and the tension on deck ramped down some, Ashe apparently not having sent a ship after them. Billy sent men forward to trim the sails, trying to find the best balance between speed and keeping as close to the course they wanted to steer as possible. That it created some privacy on the quarterdeck, all the better — Flint and Mrs. Barlow's conversation had only grown in volume.

"I cannot do this," Mrs. Barlow was saying, "I cannot talk you into a place of peace and acceptance when I feel no such thing. Not only has Peter taken Thomas from us, now he's stolen Abby away as well!" her voice rose and Billy's gut twisted. "I want to see him _hang_ , on the gallows he has used to hang men for crimes far slighter than this. I want to burn that city to the ground — that city that he purchased with _our misery_."

"And yet you argue for restraint!" Flint snapped.

"Within a year," Mrs. Barlow said, sounding like she was struggling to keep her voice level, "I expect Abby will be married, and with any luck, away from Charles Town."

Billy managed to suppress his flinch, but only just. He'd always known that marriage to a proper gentleman was in Miss Abby's future, and he wanted what was best for her, wanted her to be happy. But the way Mrs. Barlow put it… It was a strange thing to hope for, that Miss Abby would find a suitable match quickly, and put Charles Town behind her just as surely as she had Nassau.

"The plan for pardons is dead," Mrs. Barlow went on, "and I have been reminded of everything foul and horrid in English Society. I am arguing that we find a way to hurt Peter, to hurt _England_ , that doesn't hurt Abigail. You know I love her like a, like a—"

Billy's mind shied away from how he himself might have finished that sentence, even as Flint supplied, "Daughter."

"Yes, perhaps, or as though she were truly my niece," Mrs. Barlow answered. "She went through so much, she deserves to have a chance at a happy life."

"You know I grew fond of her too," the Captain said almost defensively.

"Then you know that we— you cannot—"

"I _know!_ " They were quiet a long moment, then Flint repeated, softer, "I know."

"We'll find a way to hurt him," Mrs. Barlow said, though Billy wasn't sure which of them she was trying to reassure.

"You're damn right we will," Flint answered, and Billy echoed it in his own mind.

_Damn right we will._


	2. II

It was a far less comfortable voyage back to Nassau, laboriously beating into the wind, the swell giving them an unpleasant sort of corkscrewing motion that had almost everybody hanging over the side at one point or another. With her extra gundecks the _Revenge_ was tall above the water, her enormous freeboard making the motion far worse than it would have been even on the _Walrus_ , which wasn't the most comfortable ship either. Billy had more than a few wordless 'this fucking _barge_ ' exchanges with Mr. Dr Groot.

Even with the overhauled yards the lines ran heavy enough that a tack required two full watches on deck, and the third if there were any seasick, which there were. Sleep disrupted and fighting against the uncomfortable motion of the ship, nobody was exactly in a good mood. It didn't help that their fresh stores were out — they hadn't been able to take on any supplies in Charles Town, so they were down to salted meat and dry biscuit and closely rationed water, and the fervent hope that they could fight their way to land before that ran out too.

As he directed the men through yet another tack, he found himself mentally narrating the process to Miss Abby, knowing she would have found it interesting. Unfortunately for her, they'd had the wind on their starboard quarter the entire voyage up, no need for a single manoeuvre until they had arrived. If she'd been aboard now she would have had ample chance to see a tack done. Of course, if she'd been aboard now she would have been seasick along with the rest of them, eating salted meat and stale biscuit. No matter how much he wished she was still there, he couldn't put her through this, even mentally.

He hoped things were better where she was.

 

On their return to Nassau Flint had, on Billy's urging, promised at least a week of shoreleave. They'd left for Charles Town without a delay, so after close to a month at sea the crew was antsy, very ready to go ashore and stay there for a while.

Captain Flint escorted Mrs. Barlow back to the homestead, a stern sort of silence between them that hurt Billy a little to see. They were both full of anger, and while it didn't seem directed at each other — they didn't seem to be _fighting_ so much — it was clear that each other's company wasn't helping. He wasn't surprised when the Captain returned that evening.

"You can go ashore if you like, I'll stay aboard," he said to Billy, and Christ, Billy knew that it looked strange that after a fortnight at sea he didn't care to set foot on land, but the prospect of the tavern or the inn, or the beach camp with his brothers — he couldn't stand the thought of it right now. The Captain had brought back a sack with fresh food and a barrel of water enough for the half-watch that was aboard overnight, and that took away the only reason he might have cared to go ashore.

"Nah, I'll— here is good," he shrugged awkwardly. Flint gave him an understanding nod and went into the salon.

Billy spent the evening on the sort of necessary but non-urgent maintenance work that none of the crew would have considered a reason to stay aboard, especially after so long at sea. He sharpened his knives and cutlass, cleaned his pistol, then finally oiled his boots and belts.

_Must cost half a cow to make those boots_ he remembered, and Jesus Christ, was there nothing he could do that didn't carry memories of her? And it was such a strong memory, too, for all that it had been followed by many more notable moments. It had only been the day after her rescue from the _Nemo_ , she'd been skittish, shoulders tensing uneasily whenever any of the crew so much as looked in her direction.

He'd been so aware of his own body relative to hers, of not looming over her or making her feel crowded or blocked in. Of letting her decide which touches were necessary. And then suddenly they'd just been talking, about Nassau and… nothing he remembered very distinctly. He only remembered how pleased he'd been to see her feel at ease around him, to hear her speak freely.

Even the happy memories had that tinge of hurt, now, that melancholy he seemed unable to shake. He'd known better than to grow attached to her, he _had_ , but looking back… he wouldn't have done anything differently if he could. He couldn't regret the time they'd spent together, not even when it had meant being away from his brothers. Not even now that it had left him with this dull ache in her absence.

 

The next day he was already cursing himself for talking Flint into a whole week in the bay. Being on the hunt would be far more preferable than sitting around. He spent the day washing his clothes, then mending them, every little hole or tear meticulously repaired, trying valiantly not to think of Miss Abby's embroidery by the fire while Mrs. Barlow read to them in the evenings. When he was done by eight bells of the afternoon watch, he stripped down to his smalls and jumped overboard, swimming laps around the ship until he was almost too tired to make it back up the ladder.

He wasn't sure why, but it made him feel better.

 

"Not that I'm complaining about the extra day ashore," De Groot said the next evening, "but are you alright? Sure you don't want to go into town?"

"Maybe before we sail," Billy shrugged, relieved when the other man didn't probe any further.

 

When he finally did go ashore, it was as much a non-event as he'd expected. It was nice to have a good meal in the tavern, to have a wash with fresh water for once, but by the time most of his brothers had returned to the beach camp that night, Billy found himself wishing he was back aboard instead. He sat back a little from their circle by the fire, glumly drinking the harsh rotgut that had found its way back to the beach with the crew.

He'd briefly considered paying somebody to row him back to the ship, but a boat approaching in the dark would cause alarm — Christ, _everything_ made him think of her — and then questions about why he'd found it so necessary to come back after dark. It all seemed far too much effort to make, so he just didn't. But that didn't mean he enjoyed his night ashore.

 

Billy slept uneasily in the crew's beach camp, waking with the dawn groggy and out of sorts, while the rest of the men were still asleep. For a long moment he laid there, listening to the surf and watching the sky slowly brighten, trying to clear his mind of the last bits of a dream. He tried to remember what he'd done with his days ashore, before the _Nemo_. Things for the crew, he supposed. There always seemed to be an endless list that needed seeing to, likely all the worse now for Silver's brief stint as Quartermaster. At least it would be a project to throw himself into. Hopefully it would be enough to distract him from— everything else.

He also remembered that sometimes, if you were up early enough, the tavern had fresh bread and eggs and bacon for breakfast. With that thought, he pushed to standing, and slowly made his way toward town.

 

Breakfast had not been a disappointment, and Billy was lingering over the remains of his meal when someone clapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up to see Vane sliding into the empty chair beside him. He set his own breakfast on the table and dug in.

"What are you doing up this early?" Billy asked, feeling marginally more awake after his meal.

"Could ask you the same thing," Vane said. " _I_ only just got in," he went on, nodding in the general direction of the bay.

Oh. Right. Now he thought of it, Billy did vaguely remember seeing the _Ranger_ coming in when he'd first woken up. It hadn't even registered at the time.

Vane fixed him with a level gaze for a long moment. "Your girl back home, then?" he asked.

"Yeah," Billy said heavily, looking away. What else was there to say?

"Any chance you'll see her again?"

"No."

Vane hummed something like sympathy, and they were both silent for a while, Vane finishing up his breakfast.

"How'd your run go?" Billy asked finally.

Vane shrugged. "Well enough, just not much of a haul."

"Oh?"

"Slave ship," he shrugged. "Once we set them free, we stripped the ship, but there wasn't much of value. Got some decent spare blocks and spars for the _Ranger_ though, so worth it all around."

Billy hummed in acknowledgement. It wasn't a secret that Vane refused to deal in slaves, even more staunchly than Flint. Where Flint usually avoided slaver ships, Vane would go after them. It had never occurred to Billy before to wonder what happened to those people after they were set free. Where they were set on land, if they managed to stay free, and what kind of life they could make for themselves afterward.

"Come sail with me," Vane said as he got up. "I've been meaning to head south. We'll swing by Barbados, give you a chance to go see your girl," he offered offhandedly. Billy huffed a breath.

"Still on that, huh?" he ignored the part about Barbados. If Vane had only just returned he might not know yet, but he'd find out soon enough the _Revenge_ hadn't gone south at all. "I thought your crew was shaping up."

"Oh, they are," Vane grinned. "Still wouldn't say no to having you lead them."

He gave Billy a friendly clap on the shoulder and headed off to whatever business he had ashore.

 

A few days later the _Revenge_ set out to sea again, and it couldn't have come soon enough for Billy. The return to the familiar routine of sailing would set him back to rights, shake him out of this pointless somber mood. The weeks of living on the homestead, of being a farmhand, of sharing meals with— it would all fade away into a strangely distant dream, and he would go back to being a pirate.

After all of Flint's lofty plans that had come to nothing, the stated goal was to make some real money — capture some prizes and stay out as long as supplies and cargo durability would allow. Billy was all for it. The morale of the crew improved measurably with the cargo of the first two prizes in the hold; he only wished his mood could be so easily lifted.

In some ways he was glad to be back to the simplicity of it, the straightforward uncomplicated nature of taking a prize, and of leading his watch, of returning the ship to the kind of order he expected but Silver had let slip. It didn't quite hold the joy for him it once had, but staying busy kept his waking mind occupied, at least.

If only his dreaming mind would cooperate.

 

Mr. De Groot was at the helm when Billy came up on deck, the ship quiet and dark around them, and the watch member more likely assigned the task conspicuously absent.

"You're up early," De Groot said when Billy stopped a few feet away. It wasn't yet six bells.

"Couldn't sleep," Billy shrugged.

"Nightmares again?"

"That obvious, am I?" he asked, looking at him sidelong.

De Groot chuckled. "Difficult to hide it from me of all people, this hour of night." He shot Billy a considering look before turning his gaze back to the weather edge of the topsail, dark against the star-strewn night sky. "Seems worse since you got back. Did all that time on land aggrevate what was already there?"

It was— De Groot would never be Gates, but it was _nice_ to have someone to talk to who wasn't Mrs. Barlow or Flint or Vane, or the echoing insides of his own head. The few times they'd talked like this since Gates died, it'd always seemed to help.

"Not exactly," he answered. "More how that ended, if anything, I suppose. I dream of… shit I can't change, suns that don't set, hallways that don't end, people I can hear but can't, can't find." He shook his head, trying to clear it of images and sensations half-remembered.

"Never cared much for nightmares, myself," De Groot said after a beat of silence. "Waste of energy, both sleeping and waking."

"...You realise you say the same thing every time, don't you?"

"How else would it be a comfort, unless you knew to expect it?"

Mr. Sampson came back from wherever he'd been to relieve De Groot at the helm, and De Groot waved Billy off the quarterdeck.

"Go, clear your head before your watch. I don't want to have to worry about you doing harm to my ship while I sleep."

Billy huffed a chuckle, mood buoyed for the moment, and made his way down the ladder.

 

It was another fortnight before they returned to Nassau, in which time they managed to capture another two rich prizes. The crew's spirits were high, eager to go ashore and spend their shares, but by the time they were sailing into the bay, Billy was already trying to think of excuses to stay aboard this time.

Which, naturally, meant the Captain cornered him after they'd decided on the shoreleave rota. Flint had taken the first watch for himself, and evidently wasn't keen on letting Billy skip his shoreleave again.

"Take this up to Mrs. Barlow when you go ashore tonight," he said, holding out a book and a sealed note to Billy.

He eyed it warily. "Shouldn't you go see her yourself, sir?"

"She doesn't want to see me," Flint replied, gruff and resigned. "Doesn't want to be reminded—"

"And you think I'll be much better?"

He sighed. "You and Miss Ashe were a comfort to her, that much is clear. And at the moment, I am not." Flint stared at him a long moment. "Do I need to make it an order?"

Billy suppressed a groan and accepted the offered items. There was a bookmark in the book. "No sir. I'll see she gets it."

"See she's _well_ ," Flint said. "And for fuck's sake, shave first, would you? Did your razor break or something? Do you need my spare?"

Billy shrugged, but took the time to shave before heading ashore.

 

Dulce's guarding barks turned into yips of joyful excitement as soon as she recognised his voice, and Billy couldn't help smiling a little at that warm welcome.

Mrs. Barlow came out of the house, and for a moment he saw her face fall, an expression of disappointment. He wasn't who she'd expected, or hoped for. If the Captain thought she didn't want to see him, he was utterly wrong.

"Billy! What a surprise. Is everything well?"

"Everything's fine, ma'am," he answered as he dismounted. "The Captain is well," he added, knowing that was what she was really asking.

Some of the tension went out of her posture.

"He asked me to give you this," he said, handing over the book and note.

She accepted them, and he stood a little awkwardly by his borrowed horse, not wanting to assume he was anything more than a messenger. She looked up from the book's title page and noticed.

"Why don't you put your horse in the stable? I was about to have lunch, I do hope you'll join me."

 

The humidity that had been building all morning broke as they were eating, sheets of rain so dense the shed nearby was often obscured. They lingered at the large table after their meal, over tea from mismatched teacups.

"I don't suppose we're likely to hear from her," Billy said, unable to quite turn it into a question.

Mrs. Barlow shook her head and looked out the window, into the downpour, cradling her teacup in her hands. "I implored her not to write, worried about the further damage it might do her reputation. And even had I not, I didn't get the impression her father would much approve of us corresponding, did you?"

"I think we both know what kind of man her father is."

She hummed in agreement, and they kept their gazes to their tea.

"Still," she said after a moment, "we have mutual friends in London, and I have received a few letters since coming here. It is possible someone might write of Abby, of the momentous events in her life: a marriage, a birth—" She cut herself off with a poorly disguised break in her voice, and Billy was reminded all over again how much Mrs. Barlow had lost in all of this, too.

Dulce rested her head on Billy's knee and sighed morosely. He knew the feeling.

 

"Come on Billy, chin up, we're going t'have a good time tonight," Muldoon said cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder as they sat near the crew's cookfire later that evening. When Billy began to shake his head, ready to tell him that he'd prefer to stay on the beach, several more of the men joined the circle.

"Ah come on man, it'll do ye good."

"No drinking alone tonight, you coming with us," Bosedeh declared, reaching down his hand.

"Up you go, lad. No moping tonight if we can help it."

Billy considered resisting, refusing to get up, but with Mr. De Groot being one of those urging him to come along, it suddenly made him feel like a petulant boy. He sighed inwardly and grasped Bosedeh's forearm, letting the other man pull him to his feet. He didn't have to go up with a girl, he supposed. And maybe it would do him good to be in the company of his brothers in good spirits, maybe some of it would finally rub off on him.

 

He felt as much like dead weight at the inn as he had on the beach and on the ship. Rather than bring anyone else down, he found himself a spot at the bar, tucked away from the action, to sit and watch in silence. It'd been a mistake to come, but it was too late now, and he could get blind drunk here as easily as anywhere.

It was perhaps half a glass later that Featherstone, Rackham's Quartermaster, wandered over to say hello, though Billy suspected he was mostly looking for a new bottle. Billy grunted a greeting in return, and the other man shot him a look.

"You've certainly been in a mood lately," Featherstone said as he ducked behind the counter to root around in the cupboards underneath. He emerged with a bottle, uncorked it and took a sniff, and with a pleasantly surprised expression filled his cup and then topped off Billy's. The rules for paying customers did seem to be blurred when it came to the leadership of the _Colonial Dawn_ , but Billy wasn't going to argue with free booze.

"Yeah? What mood is that?"

"Shit," Featherstone answered succinctly. "Tell me, as one quartermaster to another, is life truly that bad?"

Billy grunted at him and took a long drink.

"It's that great giant barge of yours getting you down, isn't it?" he said as he came back around to sit at the bar beside Billy. "Heard you caught weather, coming home from— well, you know. Can't imagine that's fun on a ship that rides as high as the _Revenge_."

Billy groaned in agreement. "Don't even get me started on the corkscrew. Enough to make all of us miss the _Walrus_."

"Ah, I know that route well," Featherstone sighed, shaking his head with a wry smile. "If the wind backs east, it can be hellish even in the best of ships. Why this one time—"

He let Featherstone ramble for a while, telling stories of the _Colonial Dawn_ in the days before Rackham became her captain, the hell they used to rain on the shipping lanes outside Charles Town. Evidently they'd found new hunting grounds a few years after Ashe became governor, his Navy patrols cutting too far into their profit margin to make the trips worthwhile anymore. Billy drifted off, only half listening, imagining what the city would have looked like if Flint had been able to follow through on his instinct to fire on Ashe for all his treachery.

 

Sometime later, Featherstone excused himself to go 'talk' to Idelle, and Billy found himself alone, all of his crewmates busy talking to girls or to pirates from other crews. It was raucous with talking and singing here, the air heavy with the scent of ale and wine and perfume and smoking. He suddenly felt unbearably alone amidst all this revelry, knowing his state of mind to be so vastly different from anybody else here. Surely nobody would mind — or even notice — if he made himself scarce? Going for a quiet wander by the beach sounded much more tolerable.

Billy hefted the bottle Featherstone had left with him, still almost three-quarters full, and silently walked out.

 

"...Jesus, is he even alive?"

Billy growled at the voice that was far too close and far too loud, intending to swipe out his arm to bat them away from him. He struggled against some constriction instead, brain refusing to cough up any information about what the fuck was going on. Dragging open his eyes only led to a bright stabbing sensation, and he groaned.

"There we go," said Thompson.

Some kind of disgusting sea creature had crawled into Billy's mouth overnight and died there, that was the only explanation for the taste in his mouth. He rolled onto his back, freeing his arm, and he pressed it over his eyes, protecting them from the bright late morning sunlight.

"—the fuck happened," he managed, voice broken and far too loud for his own good.

"We haven't a fucking clue!" Thompson crowed, clearly entertained by the situation. "Vane — _Vane!_ — dragged you into camp sometime after we'd all bedded down. Said he'd found you up to your knees in the surf, looking like you were about to start swimming out to the ship."

Billy groaned, not remembering any of this. He remembered talking to Featherstone. In the inn, probably? And maybe taking a bottle away from the raucous revelry of brothel, but that was about it. He wished he could deny that what Thompson said was a possibility, but given how his mood had been lately, it really didn't seem implausible.

"Got water?" he rasped.

A waterskin was pressed into his hand, and he gulped down as much as he could before his stomach began to protest. Then he dragged himself into approximately upright position and aimed himself at the tent. As soon as he was in the shade he let himself slump to the ground, quite willing to let sleep take him if that meant not having to face the world for another few hours.

 

The crew mercifully left him alone until it was time to return to the ship in the early evening.

Billy scaled the ship's ladder with considerably less ease than normal. He felt shaky and embarrassingly weak, having refused dinner. When the ship rolled toward him while he was on the ladder he had to pause and hang on until he could continue. Flint gave him a hard look when Billy came over the railing.

Billy followed him wordlessly up the steps to the quarterdeck, and then stood dumbly as Flint held out an expectant hand.

"The message," he finally said. "Surely Mrs. Barlow gave you one?"

Billy desperately wracked his sluggish brain to recall the visit to Mrs. Barlow. They'd had lunch together and chatted, both keenly feeling Miss Abby's absence. He remembered riding away once the rain had stopped, but he couldn't remember a message. Had Mrs. Barlow forgotten to write one for Captain Flint? Had she not cared to? No, that seemed wrong. She'd seemed so surprised and disappointed when it was him riding up to her homestead and not the Captain.

"She said you should come see her, sir," he finally said. Which wasn't exactly true — she had said no such thing — but he was pretty sure it wasn't a complete lie either.

Flint gave him a look Billy was too hungover to decipher, and turned away to go get his shore bag.

 

A few days later they were back at sea, taking multiple light prizes in quick succession. The take of each wasn't great, but it got the men's blood up to go for the ships, there were only a few injuries, and morale greatly improved with each prize.

Everybody's morale except Billy's, but well, there didn't seem to be much to be done about that. On land or at sea, fighting or drinking, nothing quite seemed to shake him out of the dark cloud that had haunted him since Charles Town.

 

"Come on, Billy, you've been a right grumpy asshole lately, we've got just the thing to sort you out.

"Yeah man, get you back on the right tack, eh?"

Billy hauled on his oar as they rowed to the beach, knowing where this was headed. It was true that he'd been in a foul mood with the crew though, harder on his watch than he needed to be, and he felt just guilty enough to allow them to tow him along to the brothel.

"This time we're gonna make sure you actually enjoy yourself instead of slinking away!"

"We'll all chip in!"

There weren't many ships in at the moment, and the arrival of the _Revenge_ crew caused a flurry of activity in the inn — drink and food brought out, girls coming out to find their favourites and cozy up to them. Billy downed his beer with little enthusiasm for the proceedings. Not that he'd had any enthusiasm for anything else, either, lately.

One by one his watch members started to disappear upstairs with the girls of their choice. Before Driscoll went up the stairs, he stopped by Mistress Max, talking to her and indicating Billy. She looked at him, and nodded.

Billy gestured for somebody to refill his beer a third time.

Some time later Max drifted over to where he sat, a brunette girl trailing behind her. He hadn't seen her before; she hadn't been as forward when the crew arrived.

"Hello Billy," Max said. "Driscoll said you might want an introduction. This is Linette," she indicated the girl, who'd stayed a step behind her, and she came forward. Linette gave him a shy smile, sweeping her long brown hair back from where it had fallen forward. She was taller than Max— taller than Miss Abby, but he decided firmly not to think about that— and slightly chubby in an appealing way, the soft, pale curves of her begging to be touched.

"She's new, but I know you're a man who can be trusted with that."

Billy nodded in acknowledgement, and Max left, leaving Linette with him. She glanced at him from under her lashes, and put her hand in his. He finished his beer and got to his feet, allowing her to lead him to a room.

 

"How new?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

She flashed a smile. "Oh, you needn't worry about— not _that_ new."

"Right."

"It is only that— some of the men have outlandish tastes, and Mistress Max said that you are not one of them," she said with a shy glance at him, obviously wondering how he'd take that.

Billy just nodded. True enough.

"But that perhaps you might like to take a bath?"

He raised his head at that suggestion, his attention drawn by this idea more than… well, it had been awhile since he'd washed in anything but seawater. He'd forgotten that this was an option, and hell, the crew's gift might just be a success after all.

Linette left for a moment to arrange for a bath. When she got back, followed by servants with the tub and two with buckets of warm water, she drew the curtains around the bed, hiding them from view of the people walking in and out. Billy smiled at her, amused by that coy gesture. It wasn't like he particularly cared about being seen, but it felt nice somehow, being in this cozy little space together. She put a hand against his chest and lightly pushed for him to sit against the headboard.

"You are overdressed for a bath," she said, and he chuckled and kicked off his boots, letting them thump off the bed. She sat astride his thighs and pulled off his shirt, then slowly unbuttoned her dress. His hands came to rest on her hips of his own volition, enjoying the way she was getting braver, more confident.

She slid the open dress off her arms and tossed it against one of the curtains, letting it fall to the ground. He tugged her forward, her heavy breasts coming to press against his chest, and kissed her. She was soft and pliant in his arms, and it felt good, the weight of her against him, the feeling of skin against skin. He hadn't expected to feel enthusiastic about this, but he certainly found himself responding to her.

"Bath is ready," somebody said outside their curtained little nook, and Linette waited for the click of the door closing before sliding out of his arms and pulling open the bed curtain.

The tub was large, half-full and steaming gently, and there was a piece of strong-smelling soap and some cloths beside it. Billy stripped out of his remaining clothes and went over to feel the temperature, ignoring Linette's murmured compliments of his body.

The bath was wonderful, and by the time Linette had scrubbed his back and massaged his neck, he was more than ready to guide her to join him in the tub. She settled in his lap, her breasts crushed against his chest and her face tucked against his neck, his cheek turned against her hair. Their splashing made a wet mess of the floor, but well, Billy couldn't much care about that.

 

He woke in time for morning watch, disoriented for a long moment. Not the ship. A bed. His heart kicked painfully at seeing long brown hair spread out on the pillow next to him, but then he leaned over and the sweet, sleeping girl beside him was not—

Life didn't get that good. He was in the brothel.

His mood plummeted.

He quietly got dressed, having had long practice in rising without waking others. He knew Driscoll and the others would be good to their word to pay Max for his night, so he left some money for Linette on the pillow and slipped out, heading down to the beach.


	3. III

He kept dreaming of her, was the problem. It'd been nearly two months since Charles Town — she'd been gone now longer than the entire time he'd known her — and Billy was more than eager to move on from this, to forget her and the idyllic picture his mind had painted of what their life together might be like. But his slumbering brain clearly wasn't ready to let it go, and his sleep hours turned into endless exploration of all the lives they might have shared, all the futures they might have had.

Abby on a ship with him, taking the helm, proudly smiling as she kept course. Abby in a little house in Nassau, shopping at the market, or waiting for him on the jetty, so impatient to see him she couldn't stand still. Abby in a cottage, opening the door to him after a long voyage, a toddler on her hip. Waking up next to her in a bed, realising that he was on land, that there was no morning watch, and falling back asleep with his nose buried in her hair. Taking a bath with her, in the tub together with little care for the puddles they were creating on the floor. Combing out her long hair, slowly and carefully, while she sat blinking owlishly by the fireside.

All of it so sweetly peaceful, so loving and glad, that waking up to reality was excruciating every time. The morning watch, which had always been his favourite time of day, became his most hated, the dreams slowly fading from his mind, replaced by his foul mood.

The crew, naturally, had noticed. It had clearly been part of the reason they had talked him into joining them at the brothel last time they were ashore. And while Billy could distantly appreciate that their motives came from a place of friendship and concern, the last thing he needed was the scrutiny of the entire crew as he tried to dig himself out of the hole his life had become after Charles Town.

Silver, just as naturally, went above and beyond to put himself in his very own category.

Billy had woken that morning from yet another dream of Miss Abby, then watched the sun come up over the morning watch as his mood darkened. He couldn't remember that night's dream all that well, which led to him thinking about it _more_ rather than less, but he remembered Abby's laughter, light and easy. It stayed with him throughout the morning watch, like an echo that had only just faded, but the members of his watch, at least, knew better than to comment on his mood.

He was the last one to come down to the mess for breakfast after the watch change, and when he reached the galley to get his meal, the rest of his watch had already claimed their food and found spots at the hanging tables. Standing at the pot that held the last of breakfast, Silver reached for an empty bowl then hesitated. He watched Billy for a long moment, expression shrewd.

"I did warn you," he said, in what Billy supposed passed for a sympathetic tone from Silver, "that nothing but disaster could come from growing attached to someone like Miss—"

He didn't remember deciding to punch Silver, but suddenly his knuckles were stinging and the other man lay sprawled on the floor of the galley, blinking up at him in shock. And for just a moment, everything else stopped, Billy's dreams forgotten and Miss Abby's laughter silenced, finally. It all came rushing back in as Billy recognised the sudden quiet in the mess, felt the eyes of the crew on him, but for that one moment he'd been free of it.

"Fuck off, Silver," he said, then turned and stalked toward the ladder without a backwards glance.

 

The crew gave him a little more space after that. Things didn't get better, not even close to it, but perhaps they at least didn't get worse. Life just… kept happening, grinding onward in a way he'd never been so damn aware of before. Day after day, either ashore or aboard, stacking up into weeks, differentiated only very slightly by the kind of prizes they took, and the gradual shift in the weather from fall to winter. All too soon Christmas was looming, but the hunting was good this time of the year, so they pushed their luck, staying out as long as the crew could stand.

They took their largest prize that third week of December, the violence of capturing the merchant ship enough to clear Billy's head for awhile. When the other crew was secured, the _Revenge_ men split up to search the rest of the ship. It was a standard thing, searching a prize ship for valuables, but Billy did it by rote, with as little attention to his task as he could manage. He found himself in the captain's cabin, blinking at a stack of matching china that made his throat tighten and his eyes burn in a way he definitely was not going to think about.

Nothing chipped or broken was worth taking, of course, so he started sorting through the captain's stash, setting aside any piece that had come through unscathed. There wasn't enough left to interest the Guthries, but whatever undamaged pieces Billy found, Flint could take up to Mrs. Barlow when they returned to Nassau, actually _talk_ to her—

The next cracked plate hit the deck with more force than necessary, shattering at Billy's feet. He looked down at it for a long moment, then picked up the next plate from the stack — also chipped — and hurled it down, its fragments joining the first. He'd killed several people when they took the ship, probably half a dozen by his hand alone, but this, this was where he found satisfaction for everything roiling inside him, screaming to be let out. Bowls and cups followed the plates to their destruction one by one, until he was chucking them against the walls, against the windows that were nothing like those of the _Revenge_ , against the bookshelf full of books he couldn't bring to Abby—

In the end, none of the china remained but three pristine teacups with saucers to match. He left them sitting on the chart table for Flint to find, and exited the cabin to the crunching of shattered porcelain under his boots.

 

Flint gave Billy a sharp look when he came out of the prize's captain's cabin a while later, but didn't say anything. Billy noticed the cloth-wrapped bundle he was carefully carrying, and turned away rather than meet the Captain's piercing gaze. The cups would go to Mrs. Barlow, and Flint wouldn't have an excuse to stay away. It was something, at least. With Christmas nearing, Billy hoped Flint would clear the air with Mrs. Barlow, wouldn't continue to let their mutual hurt and anger keep them apart. She deserved to be happy, after everything, deserved to have her home full of loving company at this time of year, insomuch as that was possible.

All Billy wanted for Christmas was a full bottle and a lonely spot to get well and truly drunk.

 

With the cargo of the last prize stuffed into every available bit of hold space, they returned to Nassau, arriving just in time for the holiday. While few pirates actually cared about the religious significance, an air of festivity overtook Nassau around this time of year, and more ships than usual would be in the bay at the same time. It was a time to celebrate good hauls, good company, and good booze. Despite Billy's overly sharp leadership, the crew's spirits were high, anxious to get on with the week-long revelry ahead of them.

Flint had been subdued since taking that last prize, giving Billy a wide berth, hardly speaking more than a few words to him until they gathered in the salon to discuss the skeleton crew watch rota for the week. He seemed surprised when Billy quietly offered to take one of Flint's watches, so he could spend more of the week at the homestead, but Billy just shrugged. If the last few months had taught him anything it was that he would want to be back onboard sooner rather than later, anyway.

De Groot declared them both too morose to stay aboard a minute longer and claimed the first ship's watch, practically shooing them off the ship. Billy gathered what he needed for a single night ashore then helped prepare the launch boat, feeling as though he was floating along at the edges of the men's excitement. Flint emerged from the salon, carefully carrying that cloth-wrapped bundle again, and Billy watched him guard it just as carefully as they rowed the launch to the beach. He wondered idly if Mrs. Barlow would ever have reason to use three matching teacups.

The Captain stopped him on the edge of town before they could part ways — Flint to the tavern to speak with Miss Guthrie about their prize haul, and Billy heading in the direction of a little shop he knew that dealt in nothing but good quality booze. Flint hesitated a moment, then gestured to the wrapped teacups.

"Any message I should convey to Mrs. Barlow?" the Captain asked, voice gruff.

He blinked, shook his head. "No, just… A good holiday to you both. I'll see you in a few days, Captain," he added, and resolutely turned away from him and made his way into town.

 

Billy leaned back against a convenient palm tree and idly stared out at the water, the way the moonlight glinted on the waves. He took another swig of rum, then pressed the base of the bottle into the soft sand so it wouldn't fall over. No sense to wasting good drink in a fit of frustration.

He heard footfalls, too close for comfort, and then somebody stood looking at him in his secluded spot, outlined against the night sky and backlit by the distant firelight of the beach camps. One of his own crew? He'd driven them hard on this last hunt, been enough of an asshole to them that he hadn't thought it likely. Might even have done it on purpose, just to be left alone with his bottle.

"Come drink with me," Vane said in his low rasp, because of course it was Vane who didn't know how to take a fucking hint.

"Sure, I'm sitting out here because I'm desperate for company," Billy scoffed, raising the bottle to his lips for another swig.

"Yeah, I figured," Vane chuckled, staying where he was.

"I'm not in the fucking mood, Vane," Billy answered, staring straight ahead rather than meeting his too-knowing gaze.

"You're already drinking," he pointed out, some might even say reasonably. Billy might be inclined to punch those people, but that was neither here nor there.

"Alone, you might have noticed."

"At least you're not about to swim to the ship and drown your drunk ass. This time."

"Fuck you. Want to be alone."

Vane stepped closer and dropped down to sit in the sand close to Billy. He shuffled around until he had a little dune as a backrest, and relaxed with his legs stretched in front of him in a way that made it clear he had no intention of leaving. Billy ground his teeth. Fucking _Vane_ , inviting himself where he wasn't wanted. What else was new. At least he hadn't helped himself to Billy's rum, like he'd helped himself to food back then with Mrs. Barlow and Miss Abby. Yet, anyway. Billy hefted his bottle to double check, took a swig of rum instead of lashing out.

"And a sorry sight it is," Vane said. "Thought you'd be glad to be back with your crew."

"I am!" Billy said, before he could stop himself. "Just…"

"You miss your girl." Vane actually sounded sympathetic, and somehow that was _worse_.

"She was never my girl," Billy ground out. "She was never going to be."

"And why is that?"

Shit, he shouldn't have said anything, especially a ways into the bottle as he was. Billy recognised it too late. Vane was sharp as a deck splinter, with a similar tendency to get under your skin, and there was no safe way of answering that question. Abby Barlow, niece of Mrs. Barlow, could possibly have become his wife. It was Abigail Ashe who had never been more than a dream.

But she was safely with her father in Charles Town, probably married by now, what could it matter?

"She wasn't…" he gestured vaguely. "She was something else. Somebody else. Too good for the likes of me."

"I know who she was, jackass," Vane said in a low rumble, grabbing the bottle and taking a swig of Billy's rum.

Billy just stared at him, too stunned to even protest the stealing of his damn bottle.

"You _knew_."

"Too many people colluding to keep attention off of her for her to be anybody insignificant," Vane gestured with the bottle. "Even if she were Flint's niece. And Jack's not as subtle as he likes to think."

"When— when did you know?"

"When it was clear you were pining instead of courting," Vane said, taking another swig of rum. Billy made an aggrieved noise, feeling a little too exposed, and lunged for the bottle. He overbalanced, grabbing it with less coordination than he would have liked.

"Fuck you, Vane." He yanked the bottle into his possession and struggled back upright.

"I don't know, it doesn't sound so bad, when you think about it," Vane said, unruffled. He folded his arms behind his head and leaned back. "Sweet girl, obviously liked you too but the situation was all…" he chuckled, " _star-crossed_. Had a clean break. Whole thing's gonna make for a nice memory."

"Fuck you. What the fuck do you know," Billy growled, pissed off with the way Vane made it sound almost _nice_. Nothing about what he was feeling was nice.

"' _The fuck do you know_ ,'" Vane mocked. "Least you don't spend weeks figuring it's finally over only for her to fucking waltz right back in. Never know who she's convincing when she says it was the last time."

"The fuck do you mean. I'd be glad to have her back."

"Is she back because she cares about you? Does she have some job she wants handled? Maybe she just got an itch she wants scratched. Who the fuck knows," he huffed a wry laugh. "Maybe _she_ don't know, either. Maybe she just likes to check she's still got your gonads in her belt purse."

It took Billy a long moment to realise he wasn't talking about Abby, but about Eleanor Guthrie. Like it was even _remotely_ the same thing.

"Fuck you. She wouldn't," Billy protested, a little bit of a slur to his words.

"She wouldn't, huh? So why didn't you declare yourself to her when you had the chance?" Vane challenged. "Put your heart on the line like the big brave man she thought you were?"

"I couldn't— she needed," Billy struggled for words against the sheer impossibility of it. Why hadn't he? It had seemed so deeply, immutably clear, but he couldn't— his hands were curling into fists with the frustration of it all.

"Maybe she was waiting for you to," Vane suggested. "Maybe she only left because you just didn't have the stones."

"Shut the _fuck_ up," Billy said, shoving the butt of the bottle into the sand, half turning toward Vane.

"And maybe she's better off this way. Maybe her father will find her a nice well-bred Society man to do all the things you couldn't."

Billy thought about that prissy-coated Lieutenant Harrison, offering her his arm as if he had every right to. Because he did have every right to.

His drunken shove sent Vane sideways, but the other man was fast, grabbed hold of Billy's shirt and yanked him down too, landing hard in the sand.

"Maybe she'll think of you once in a while though, while he does it," Vane grinned, and Billy growled in indignation, his punch sloppy but the impact on his fist deeply satisfying.

Vane hit back, sharply and a little more coordinated, and Billy felt the alcohol and blood in his veins sing, let himself give in to the fury and frustration in his head, the raging voices that got louder every time he thought of her, of Abby. It felt good not to have to hold back, not to have to find words, not to have to pretend he was all right with any of it.

They fought in the sand, trading punches and curses, for what felt to Billy like a long time.

He wasn't even sure how, his head a blissful rush of adrenaline, but Vane got him pinned, his full weight on Billy's torso and his forearm across his throat. They were both breathing hard, and Vane grinned down at him, his teeth bloody from a split lip.

"Feel better, huh?" he growled, leaning enough weight on Billy's throat that he couldn't speak, only make a painful rasping noise. "Feel good to punch it out?"

"Fuck you," Billy managed, the ghost of a sound, but by the way Vane's grin grew sharper, clear enough.

"Yeah? What are you go—"

Billy reached up and grabbed the other man's head, intending to headbutt him, not even fully realising what happened until he felt Vane's lips hard against his, until he tasted the blood from an earlier punch.

Vane made a noise that might have been surprise, his mouth opening, and oh— _this_ , all that furious rush from fighting shifting into _this_ , somehow right next to it. He pulled Vane's mouth down against his, holding him there, Billy's hips pushing up, seeking friction against the other man's body.

Billy felt a hard grip on his wrist. Vane, pulling his hand away, slamming it in the sand next to his head. Billy made a protesting noise when the other man broke the kiss, unable to follow with Vane's hand gripping his wrist, Vane's forearm across his throat.

Vane came back in and took over the kiss, forceful, tongue pushing into Billy's mouth. His body was a heavy, blazingly hot weight, hips rocking down against Billy's, and Billy groaned into his mouth. His free hand roamed Vane's wide back, pulling him down against him harder, heavier, and it felt _good_ , being out of breath, being held down, not holding back.

He shifted his hips and they both groaned as the hard lengths of them aligned, clearly evident even through both their trousers, and then they were both grinding, mindless, the friction harsh and heavy and perfect.

Billy broke away from Vane's mouth to gasp for air, and apparently he was louder than he realised, because Vane hissed and brought up his free hand to cover Billy's mouth. Vane bent his head down to Billy's open collar and fastened his mouth on the muscle between shoulder and neck and oh _fuck_ , the _heat_ , the suction, sharp _teeth_ —

Billy's hips stuttered up, and he grunted against Vane's hand as he came in his trousers, spine arching, head tilting back into the sand. Vane ground down against him a few more times and then followed, muffling a quiet groan against the still stinging skin of Billy's neck.

Billy gradually became aware of the quiet of this secluded part of beach, only the roll of waves and their harsh breathing for sound. He stared up at the night sky, his head fuzzy and quiet, utterly calm.

After a moment Vane pushed up and rolled onto his back at Billy's side, hand flopping languidly across his own stomach. They both lay quietly for what felt like long moments, catching their breaths. Billy thought he was hazing out a little, the sound of the waves blending together, a pleasant sort of heaviness in his limbs.

He blinked to awareness when Vane huffed a chuckle and sat up, muttering a soft _Christ_. Billy watched as the other man got to his feet, not feeling the urge to move himself, despite the vulnerability of being on his back while the other was standing.

Vane went to the tree where they'd started out, and picked up the bottle that was still standing there. Sloshed it to judge the contents, and then took a swig. He hissed audibly, perhaps as the alcohol stung his split lip, and Billy grinned a little. Vane looked over at him, face unreadable in the gloom. He took another swig, and then walked over, coming to stand still next to Billy.

He stayed on his back in the sand, body languid and heavy and too comfortable to bring himself to move. After a long moment Vane leaned down to put the bottle in Billy's hand. He huffed a breath in what seemed like amusement, and patted Billy's shoulder, friendly. Then he stood up and walked off in the direction of his camp.

Billy closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the waves on the sand, and the blissful silence in his head.


	4. IV

As he'd predicted, Billy was glad to have an excuse to head back to the ship the next day, though the men who accompanied him for the watch change seemed significantly less enthusiastic. He ignored their grouchy chatter, instead going over the tasks he might be able to accomplish while onboard, mostly in an attempt to keep from thinking about anything else. But there really wasn't all that much that needed doing, and by the time the sun was sinking below the western horizon, he was already losing the fight to keep his mind occupied in the quiet of the ship.

Christmas had a way of marking the passing of time, the eras of his life: the childhood Christmases with his parents, his time in the Navy, the years with Flint's crew. The many years of Nassau's Christmas celebrations blurred together, and yet each year was notable in its own way, some particular moment that stood out no matter how much he tried not to think of those happier times.

Last year he'd spent the Christmas week with Mr. Gates, drinking and relaxing and just being in one another's company in a way they never seemed to have time for the rest of the year, between watch rotations and running the crew. So much had changed since then. It hurt to think about, and Billy wished for only the thousandth or so time that Gates was still alive. He'd missed him more than ever the last few months, and marking the holiday without him only made it that much worse.

Nor did Billy particularly want to think about the Christmas currently in progress, his own or anyone else's. Didn't want to think about the hard silences between the Captain and Mrs. Barlow at the too-quiet homestead, or Miss Abby wherever she was, whoever she was with—

His dreaming mind, of course, provided more than enough on all the many future Christmases he'd never be having.

 

De Groot was back two days later, and gave Billy a stern look when he hesitated about going ashore again. Billy knew a lost battle when he saw one, gathered his things, and climbed down to the boat without protest. He supposed he could feel aimless and disconnected from his brothers just as well on the beach as on the ship.

There was enough rum in the beach camp for the night and most of the next day to pass in a haze. By the time he felt up for food at the tavern, it was well into the afternoon. The place was busy with more crews than usual in town, willing to spend more coin on good cuts of meat, better booze than they usually sprung for.

Billy found a quiet spot in the back of the tavern, putting down the plate with roast ham and bread roll and vegetables. It was as close of an approximation of a British roast dinner as a tavern in Nassau could reasonably get, far fancier than the stew that was normally the mainstay of what pirates ate at the tavern, and it smelled good enough that his empty stomach rumbled.

As he ate he noted that Vane was at one of the central tables, at the center of a large company of pirates from various crews. He was in an expansively good mood, generous with his tankard of rum and his stories.

Billy noticed that Eleanor Guthrie, from her place by the bar, cast the occasional sour glance at the crowd.

It was something like a storm brewing, Billy could feel it in the air even at his distance on the other side of the tavern. There was no mistaking the look of displeasure on Eleanor Guthrie's face, but Vane was either oblivious or feigning it to annoy her. Billy suspected the latter, knowing Vane. Going by the wicked twinkle in the man's eyes as he studiously avoided looking at Miss Guthrie, he'd even guess Vane was enjoying it, whatever little power struggle they were engaged in.

Or perhaps he just wanted her to think he was enjoying it. Billy thought back on their conversation in the dunes a few nights previous, on the things Vane had said about Eleanor Guthrie. This seemed typical of the relationship he had described, the never-ending power struggle, the cycle of distance and closeness, all at her whim. It exhausted Billy just to think about. It was the furthest thing from what he wanted, and it still bothered him that Vane had compared the two women, the two relationships. He suspected Vane had said it intentionally to get under his skin, but that didn't make it any easier to forget. Abby would never—

But that was exactly the point: she was far better than that, and deserved far better than that. Far better than a pirate like him. Three months ago Billy might have been able to convince himself that she felt something for him too, but it hardly mattered now. Three months was plenty of time for someone like Miss Abby to find a suitable husband. It was never meant to be and never could be, but neither that nor the time apart seemed to matter one whit to Billy's heart.

He finished eating his meal, then went in search of a bottle and a quiet place to get privately drunk.

 

The week dragged on until eventually even the most hardy revellers barely made it out of their beach tents anymore, and one by one the ships began to call their crews back aboard to return to the hunt. By the time the new year had come and gone, the _Revenge_ 's crew was anxious to be back on the hunt after so many days spent in unrestrained revelry, eager for new coin in their pockets.

Flint returned to the ship in a better mood than before, and Billy was relieved to think that he and Mrs. Barlow had finally come back to their balance of before Charles Town.

If only he could do the same.

During their next two weeks at sea it became increasingly clear to him just how dissatisfied he felt with his life now. He'd never particularly dreamed of a life ashore, of a life past piracy — in fact he'd always vaguely assumed that one day his luck and skill would simply run out and he'd find himself on the wrong side of a bullet or sword or cannon ball. Just the same end as he'd seen countless other pirates meet, brutal but hopefully quick, followed by a burial at sea. To live on, if he was lucky, in stories told by his brothers.

He'd always had peace with that prospect.

Now he had seen a glimpse, however quick, however impossible, of a life beyond this one. And to his frustration, the enjoyment of sailing and the thrill and satisfaction of taking a prize felt flat and lackluster. The visits to ports no longer something to look forward to but simply so much aimless time to pass until the next sail.

Not even sitting around the campfire with his brothers held the joy it used to have. By now even the most oblivious of the _Revenge's_ crew was well aware that their Quartermaster's good mood had sailed and didn't seem to be returning, and even the newest crew that they'd taken on after Charles Town knew why.

The teasing was mostly good natured, but Billy could feel keenly that most of the crew thought he was an idiot for ever getting attached to Miss Abby in the first place, when it had always been so obvious that nothing could ever come of it, much less moping about something so impossible for so long. Their sympathy was underlaid with a kind of rueful pity that he found increasingly hard to stand. But at least being ashore gave him options other than spending the night around the campfire with his brothers.

If the _Ranger_ had been in, he'd probably have ended up drinking with Vane again. It was strange how the man made for easier company than his own brothers, now. Perhaps because Vane had always known him to be in love with Miss Abby, long before he'd known who she was and how futile that love was. Rather than razz him for ever thinking he'd stood any kind of chance, Vane was sympathetic to the misery of heartache, willing to either speak of it or be silent. Or— well, whatever the fuck it was they'd ended up doing last time they'd drunk together.

With that thought clouding his mind, Billy turned away from the empty dunes and made instead for the comforting, impersonal noise of the tavern.

 

Of course, the entire point had been to drink alone, but that had never seemed to stop Jack Rackham in the past. Billy just sighed and put down his tankard as the Captain slid into the seat beside him.

"I am really not in the mood, Rackham," he said before the other man could speak.

"And I really don't fucking care," Jack shot back, agitated. "I need to speak with your Captain."

"He's aboard ship."

"I know he's aboard ship, he's been aboard ship the last two _fucking days_. I need to speak with him, it's a matter of some urgency."

"About what?" Billy demanded.

Rackham looked at him a long moment, his expression sour, then said, "About a _fever_. In _Florida_."

 

Billy drifted through the next days and weeks as he had drifted through those that came before. He stood at Flint's shoulder as Max laid out the recent intelligence that a fever had struck the Spanish soldiers still guarding the _Urca_ gold, that it now lay all but unprotected where they'd left it months ago, and Spain likely to send ships for it as soon as the winter weather cleared from the Atlantic. He listened without comment as the deal was struck for the _Colonial Dawn_ to accompany the _Revenge_ in retrieving the gold, for the shares of the massive treasure to be divided between the crews, along with Eleanor Guthrie for her support of the _Revenge_ crew. Billy moved woodenly through the preparations for the voyage, through telling the crew, through sailing to Florida.

The battle, at least, took more of his concentration, the violence a welcome respite in the way that only fighting — or, well, _other_ things — seemed to be lately.

When the Spanish soldiers were dead and their own wounded tended to, they loaded the gold onto the _Revenge_ and the _Colonial Dawn_ , and then, still in need of hold space, they spent a week working on the wreck of the _Walrus._ By the end of the week she was, well, _seaworthy_ was perhaps too generous, but able to limp along at a scant couple of knots under the _Colonial Dawn_ 's spare topsails.

Billy captained the _Walrus_ for the duration of the voyage. The three ships returned to Nassau together, laden down with more wealth than any of them had ever seen before. Flint had followed through on his promise to make them the princes of the New World, had seen the impossible done in bringing the _Urca_ gold to Nassau.

And still, for Billy, it meant nothing.

 

The retrieval of the _Walrus_ , on the other hand, had been an unexpected boon. Billy hadn't realised how much he missed their old ship until he'd been standing at her helm again. Even limping along, a shadow of her former self, there was something about the _Walrus_ that called to him. It was the ship that had taken the Navy vessel he'd been imprisoned on, the first place that had offered him a chance to make a life of his own choosing. The ghost of Mr. Gates might seem to be lurking around any corner, but being back aboard the _Walrus_ was the closest Billy had felt to _home_ since, well—

When the crew voted to spend part of the collective fund, now rich with the _Urca_ gold, on restoring the _Walrus_ to her former glory, Billy found himself swept up in the planning. Flint seemed pleased at his involvement, and it gave Billy a project to focus on, at least, something else to do besides rot his liver with expensive booze.

 

The crew seemed to be in constant flux over the weeks that followed, long time crew members deciding to take their shares of the _Urca_ treasure and retire, while other pirates hoping to catch a portion of Flint's good luck were quick to take their places. Billy put a minimal effort into a learning names and faces, but it hardly seemed worth it. The team he'd handpicked to work with him on restoring the _Walrus_ seemed committed to the project, and everyone else barely qualified as background noise in his life at that moment.

They anchored in the bay near the _Revenge_ , and Flint gave Billy as much control over the day-to-day of the restoration as he cared to exert. It was a strange combination of responsibility and freedom, the only thing besides fighting that had felt like any sort of challenge in months. He stayed aboard the _Walrus_ more nights than not, making excuses to attend to restoration tasks that certainly could have waited a day or two for him to take shore-leave. It was easier, being aboard, where his world could shrink to the size of the ship, to the next things that needed seeing to.

And no matter where he slept, his dreams provided their usual nightly torment. Billy woke at dawn one morning from a dream of both Mr. Gates and Miss Abby with him aboard the _Walrus_ , each smiling and laughing as the ship skated along under a steady wind. He was almost surprised his sleeping mind could still find new and creative ways to make his heart ache.

Once the work of the day was done, he would dive overboard and swim laps around the ship, ostensibly to inspect the hull around the waterline, but mostly because he hoped to be exhausted enough to sleep dreamlessly. Sometimes it even worked.

 

When he did go ashore, Billy found Nassau changed a little more each time, as the _Urca_ gold made its way through town. The power structures had also shifted, both Miss Guthrie and Mistress Max using their new wealth to build their respective empires. If the island was agreed on anything, it was that Flint meant to wage war on both England and Spain, though no one quite seemed to know how. Billy professed ignorance on that point, and privately thought that so long as Nassau could offer food and booze, he didn't particularly care who held the reins of power.

 

He didn't know what it meant that he was pleased to see the _Ranger'_ s camp on the beach, or that his feet directed him there instead of toward where his brothers were. Too much time among his crew, perhaps, though he'd never used to think so. That was a frustration in itself, that everything had changed so much that he was avoiding the company of his brothers. But Vane made for more sympathetic company, and he had his own troubles going on.

He wasn't sure what had happened, with Vane, or if he wanted it to happen again. He just remembered how quiet it had been in his head, after. Some of all this raging frustration worked out, for a while.

Billy walked into the quiet camp, sloshing the bottle he'd brought from town. Vane stopped his quiet strumming on his little guitar and looked up.

"Bones. Jesus, if you need a cat for the _Walrus_ , you could just ask — my ship's cat's just had kittens. She's a good mouser. No need to grow a cat on your face."

"What?"

"That…" Vane gestured at his own face, grimacing. "That _thing_ you've got going on."

"Oh, fuck off," Billy groused, sitting down in the sand beside Vane. So maybe he hadn't seen the point in shaving in recent weeks, so what?

"You fuck off. Could'ave fucking warned me that _Urca_ thing was happening."

"Didn't really have that much to do with it," Billy shrugged, maybe slightly apologetic. The whole thing had felt unreal to him. It still did, really — it was a surprise every time he looked toward the bay and saw the _Walrus_ riding her anchor next to the _Revenge._

Vane tilted his head and made a considering noise.

"And you sure as fuck don't look cheered by your sudden change in fortune," he observed. "If a bag of gold can't fix your heart, this is really some storied shit."

Billy ignored that. Didn't want to think about any of it, right now. "Wanna spar?"

Vane's eyebrows rose, but he laid his instrument aside, clearly interested.

Billy jerked his head in the direction of the dunes and shrugged, unsure what exactly he was asking for here, unsure what Vane thought he was asking.

"Sure."

 

They trudged over the first few lines of the dunes, until they were well out of earshot of the camps on the beach.

"So do I have to goad you into punching me again or are we skipping that part?" Vane grinned.

"Screw you."

Vane made an amused noise. "Or we could skip to that."

Billy couldn't decide if he was pleased that Vane considered that an option, or not. Better not think about that. He dropped his belt and weapons under a palm tree, the bottle next to it. Saving it for later.

"I like the punching part."

"I like the part where you _try_ ," Vane smirked, and Billy swung just for that, missed but recovered, grunted when Vane got him in the stomach, and then they were off, without holding back but also without viciousness.

This was better than taking a prize, without the sharp thrill of knowing he could die, but somehow more satisfying, exchanging blows until they were both panting. Billy's entire body felt like it was buzzing, too riled up to feel the hits just yet.

The kiss didn't come as quite as much a surprise this time, an ungentle meeting of mouths that tasted of blood. Both of them were panting hard, and Billy could feel his right eye pulse with what surely going to be a shiner by morning, but he could not care right in that moment. Heart pounding, he threw any reasoned thought overboard and dove in after, pressing his tongue between the other man's lips.

 

"Huh," Vane grunted, when they were both stretched out on their backs in the sand, heads close, legs angled away from each other.

Billy made a questioning noise, his mind pleasantly fuzzy.

"Did not think you'd come looking for that."

 _I didn't_ , were the first words that crowded Billy's tongue, but even thinking it felt like a lie.

"You complaining?" he said instead.

"Nah."

They were silent for what felt like a long time, surprisingly comfortable.

"Where'd you put that bottle," Vane said eventually, on a gust of breath.

Billy made a languid gesture in the direction he thought was their starting point, then let his hand flop back down into the sand.

Vane pushed up until he saw the palm tree where they'd left their things. "Fuck, _fine_."

Billy chuckled as the other man climbed to his feet, first walked to the waterline to wash his hands, then strolled over to the palm. Rather than bring back the bottle as Billy had hoped, Vane dropped down in the sand there and opened it for a drink.

"Good stuff. You'd think suddenly being rich as a Lord would improve your mood, huh?"

"Oy, bring it here," Billy complained.

"What, I wipe the beach with you so much you can't stand?"

"Fuck you," Billy replied easily. He stared up at the night sky for a few moments longer, then sighed and got to his feet. Once he'd washed the stickiness and sand off his hands, he trudged over to settle by Vane, who offered the bottle without a word.

"How's it going?" Billy asked, wincing at the sting to his split lip. He meant _with Miss Guthrie_ but was feeling generous right now, not inclined to send Vane's thoughts toward that strange on-off situation if he wasn't in the mood to speak of it.

"I look like a cheerful man to you?" Vane asked rhetorically. "You saved me an evening of sitting around wondering if Miss Guthrie might want for my company, so thanks."

Billy had learned that it was _Eleanor_ if they were on, and _Miss Guthrie_ if they weren't, or if Vane was trying to maintain distance.

Billy hummed in acknowledgement. "So it's over?"

"It's always over until she decides it ain't."

"Rough."

"Mm."

Part of the problem, Billy knew, was that as long as Vane wanted to sail out of Nassau, he needed to stay on friendly enough footing with Miss Guthrie that she'd give him leads and accept his hauls. She was a hard woman to say no to for multiple reasons, and Vane never quite seemed to be able to resist the draw of her wake.

Vane's comments that first time they'd... sparred, made more sense now. Not being able to have anything with Miss Abby hurt, but he knew she cared for him. He thought it might be better than only ever getting the occasional moment, always knowing you cared more than she did.

It might be a cleaner pain. Better, but not by much.

"So what are you gonna do with your share?" Vane asked, head tipped back to look at the stars.

Billy shrugged. "Haven't really thought about it."

"Yeah? Enough gold to change everything, go anywhere," Vane said, "and you haven't thought about it?"

"Can't think of anything," Billy shrugged one shoulder and took a long swig from the bottle.

"Well, for one thing, you could go and get your girl," Vane said casually. "You'd have something more to offer her than a rickety beachside shack, now."

Billy indulged in the thought for a long moment. Abby here on the island, having the life with her he'd been dreaming of. Coming ashore to find her waiting for him.

Then reality reasserted itself.

"It's been almost five months. She's probably married by now." Living the life she'd always been meant to live, in a big house with good food and all the books she could wish for. Might even have a baby on the way. "And what are you suggesting, anyway? That I waltz into Charles Town, somehow avoid the noose, and ruin the life she's built just by association?"

Vane gave a conceding sort of handwave. "Fine, you wouldn't exactly do her a favour by turning up unexpected. She didn't seem like she'd put up with any crap, when I met her," Vane huffed a chuckle. "I tell you about that?"

"No." Billy had heard about the encounter from Miss Abby and Mrs. Barlow, but at the time they'd mostly been concerned with concealing Abby's identity.

"I'd seen they were in there, and I was curious after what you'd said, so once El— Miss Guthrie left, I went in. Scared your girl, at first, but she rallied. Her and Mrs. Barlow—" he chuckled. "Never knew there was such a thing as 'aggressively polite'."

"What happened?"

"They… made it very clear how I would be behaving in that room."

"...and you… did?" Billy said, not sure what he was imagining.

"Yeah," Vane chuckled, taking another drink. "I can appreciate women who know how to bend the world to their will."

"Should've seen her when I found her on the _Nemo_ ," Billy replied, smiling in spite of himself.

"Yeah, how did that go? I heard that offer from Derrick same as everybody else, but I wasn't too keen on dealing with Charles Town, myself. They must've had her for a month at least."

"About five weeks, near as we could figure. She was locked in some little storage space right next to the powder magazine," Billy recalled. "And when Joji found her, she snatched the lantern from his hands."

Vane's eyebrows went up. "From _Joji?_ Not exactly a dullard." One of the men Vane had said he'd be more than happy to poach, in fact.

"I know! He said she got him by surprise as he opened the door, and he wasn't going to try to get it back,"

"No, not right next to the powder," Vane agreed with a chuckle. "And then they called you?"

"Yeah. Here she was, in a dress she'd been wearing for more than a month, dirty thing hanging off her because they hadn't exactly fed her well. Feet bare."

Vane made a disgusted noise. "I've met Derrick and that rancid little tub he calls a ship."

"Exactly. Miracle she wasn't sick. Scared and exhausted though, and looking more than ready to smash that lantern and blow us all to kingdom come. And she _still_ wasn't having it when I told her we'd come to rescue her."

Vane huffed a chuckle.

"Had to get Flint down there, and it took him at least half a glass to convince her that she really would be better off with us, and to give up the lantern. And even so, if she hadn't been so exhausted it might have taken far longer."

"Negotiating with Flint? Spine of steel, that one," Vane sounded a little impressed.

Billy took another swig of the rum, an odd mix of feelings in his chest. It was painful to recall that moment, both because Abby had been so very frightened and miserable, and because recalling the details of her person at all was painful to him. And yet it also felt good to speak of her, and to have Vane agree on how brave she'd been, to not scoff at Billy's admiration of her but to share it.

 

A few days later the crew decided they were ready to be back on the hunt again, less for want of coin than just for boredom and the pleasure of taking a rich prize. The _Walrus_ was slowly coming into focus, but still needed months' of work yet, so Flint and Billy set to making the _Revenge_ ready to sail. One stern look from Flint had Billy agreeing to stay ashore overnight with the last of the crew on shore-leave and supervise the delivery of supplies for the voyage the next morning.

Their beach camp was rowdy and boisterous as usual, but he found himself a bottle and an isolated palm tree not too far off to while away the hours until dawn.

"Oh here you are," Silver said, dropping down into the sand beside Billy.

He'd intentionally chosen a spot on the edge of the firelight, separated from the others, intentionally kept his distance from the rest of the crew, but as usual Silver couldn't take a hint.

"I'm not looking for a drinking partner, Silver," he said. "What do you want?"

"Actually, I came to say goodbye," Silver replied, sounding almost bewildered. "I'm leaving the crew — leaving Nassau."

Billy finally looked over at him, caught off guard. "No shit?"

"You know it was only ever about the _Urca_ treasure for me," he shrugged. "I have my share now. I thought about staying, mind you. But as it turns out," he chuckled, "I would very much like to be _alive_ to spend all this lovely gold. So I am making my farewells to piracy."

"How'd Flint take it?" Billy asked.

"Well enough. He hates when someone takes a decision out of his hands, but he'll get over it. And I think we both know that my presence has caused some small amount of friction with _Mrs. Barlow_ ," he said with his usual mocking twist, and Billy had to bite his tongue against saying anything. "It'll be better for all of us in the long run, believe me."

Billy kept his thoughts on both Mrs. Barlow and her opinions of Silver to himself. "So where are you headed?"

Silver laughed and leaned back with his arms braced behind him. "No fucking idea. Port Royal first, and then — wherever the wind takes me, as usual. But in a great deal more style than before, I think," he said, sounding pleased.

Billy nodded, and despite his foul mood the last few months, couldn't find it in him to wish Silver ill. "Best of luck to you," he said. "I'm sure you'll land on your feet, wherever you go. Thanks for, you know, not killing the crew with food poisoning."

He snorted in amusement. "Thanks for coming back and taking your job back — that might have been the deciding factor in leaving, for me, actually. I have no desire to carry that kind of responsibility over any sort of long-term, but I wish you the best of luck with it," Silver said, grinning.

Billy offered his hand and they shook. Silver went to stand, then hesitated, shooting Billy a sideways glance before crouching down again for a moment.

"I know it's been a difficult year," he said slowly, "but I hope you find your joy, whatever shape that takes."

Billy knew that shape, and he knew the shape of its absence as well. He pushed the thought away and nodded. "You too, Silver. Fair winds."


	5. V

Billy gradually came aware of the sound of nearby waves and the feeling of sand underneath him— something tight about his chest— the sun just rising, another day of agony—

He woke with a panicked gasp, body jerking.

He could do that, was the realisation that followed slowly. He could move his arms and legs, he could sit up. The restriction around his torso was his shirt, twisted around him as he'd turned in his sleep.

"Hell of a way to greet the morning," a voice said.

Billy jerked around, but it was only Vane, bleary-eyed as if he'd only just woken up himself. It looked to be mid into the morning, the bottle they'd emptied after their exertions last night having ensured sleep well into the day.

For some reason he said, "Was a guest of the garrison at Harbour Island for a while. Staked out on the beach."

Vane hummed in sympathy. "That'll do it," he nodded.

Billy wasn't even sure what kind of reaction he'd expected, but this simple acceptance settled something in his stomach, let him breathe a little easier for having said it.

"Woke up under four feet of dirt, once," Vane said in a low voice, eyes on the horizon. "Wasn't as dead as they'd hoped. Still rather be cold than sleep under a blanket."

"Jesus Christ," Billy said with feeling.

"I'm fuckin' starving," Vane announced, like that conversation hadn't just happened, and levered himself up off the sand.

 

They trudged into town, Billy still trying to brush sand from his beard. It was itchy.

"Let that terrible beard grow any longer and you'll fit right in with my crew," Vane said. "They'll kick you off the _Revenge_ for being too unkempt, right?"

Billy grumbled, shrugging it off. Shaving had been the last thing on his mind for months now, and he didn't see that changing anytime soon. Even Flint had eventually stopped commenting on it. All he wanted now, Billy thought as they made their way into the tavern, was a hot breakfast before heading back out to the _Walrus_ —

The door to Eleanor Guthrie's office opened, interrupting his train of thought, and he watched as she paused on the threshold, talking with three other women. He couldn't hear them across the distance, but even in the low light of tavern, Billy could easily recognise Mrs. Barlow among them. She looked to be making her farewells to the group, and as she turned away from them, Vane seemed to notice her.

"Well look who it is," he murmured, amused, heading straight for her across the main room of the tavern, leaving Billy no choice but to follow after. "Good day Mrs. Barlow."

She blinked in surprise when she saw them, and Billy was reminded of Vane's comments on the state of his beard. Perhaps it had gotten a little shocking. Mrs. Barlow was carrying a wicker basket in the crook of her elbow, and looked dressed for town. Behind her, Anne Bonny, Max, and Eleanor Guthrie had paused in their hushed conversation to watch them.

"Ah, Captain Vane, Mr. Manderly," Mrs. Barlow recovered quickly. "How pleasant it is to see you both again," she said, and Vane sketched a slight bow. Billy tried to think of the quickest way to get Vane out of her company, in case she found him distressing, but he neither saw nor heard a trace of unease with Mrs. Barlow. Apparently Vane had told the truth about their encounter.

"I hadn't expected to see you in town, ma'am," Billy said after greeting her. He glimpsed books of sheet music in her basket and remembered that with the first flush of the _Urca_ gold, Captain Flint had ordered a pianoforte for Mrs. Barlow.

"Oh, I'm here at least twice a month, these days," she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "For breakfast with Eleanor and Max and Anne. They keep me up to date on all the latest news and gossip."

She said it lightly, but Billy had grown to know Mrs. Barlow well enough to hear the undercurrent in her words. News and gossip from _where_ , he wondered. Did Max's spy network reach as far as Charles Town? He flicked his gaze to the other woman, but she merely raised an eyebrow at him in response, and he supposed that was enough of an answer.

"Good news, I hope?" Billy asked, looking back to Mrs. Barlow. He wasn't even entirely sure what he would consider to be _good news_ out of Charles Town. He wanted the best for Miss Abby, wanted her to be happy in her new life, but even the idea of hearing the details of that happy life hurt to think about.

Mrs. Barlow hummed in acknowledgement, offering him a smile that was bright and brittle. "Nothing disastrous, in any case."

"Better than no news, I guess," he nodded.

He could feel multiple pairs of eyes on him, the other women as well as Vane, and when Mrs. Barlow excused herself to go see to her errands in town, Billy carefully steered Vane away from whatever strange nexus of female power had formed in Eleanor Guthrie's office that morning. It was almost comforting to think that Max had people keeping an eye on Miss Abby, though he knew realistically that it was no kind of safety net for her. And as much as he worried about her safety and well-being, it also felt like an invasion of her privacy, and any details Max's people might turn up only likely to bring him heartache. He wondered how Mrs. Barlow could stand it.

He also knew, realistically, that whatever conversations were happening between Eleanor Guthrie, Mistress Max, Anne Bonny, and Mrs. Barlow, they undoubtedly concerned the _Urca_ gold, the future of the island, and the shifting political landscape they seemed to be at the center of. Whatever it was, Billy was fairly certain he wanted to stay far away from it.

 

When the _Revenge_ took to sea again, the changes in the crew took a good deal of Billy's attention: with those of the old crew who'd stayed having pockets heavy with gold, there was some tension with some of the newly taken on crew. Billy had to step in on an unusually high number of card games, bets and other moments where the less sharp crew members were in danger of being made a whole lot lighter.

There was one case of outright thievery, dealt with by Joshua in a manner both swift and final enough to discourage any further attempts. Billy had to admit it was effective, even if he'd have preferred to set the man overboard near one of the little islands they were traversing.

The weeks passed with little more to recommend them than the momentary satisfaction of taking a rich prize.

 

"Hey," Joji appeared at his side by the railing.

Billy made an acknowledging sound, his eyes on the prize as they sailed away from it. They'd boarded hard and fast, cutting through any resistance, and it had felt _good_ , soothing some of his restlessness.

"Don't do that," Joji finally said, gesturing to Billy's head. He was bleeding sluggishly from a wound behind his ear, where a belaying pin had gotten him just right. It hadn't helped the prize, and it had barely slowed Billy down in his battle rage, but it was hurting plenty now.

"Do what?"

"Jump ahead. When we board. Can't have your back if you're half a deck ahead of me," Joji said, shrugging.

Billy felt a flare of… guilt, maybe or shame — something he didn't care to examine.

"Or you could keep _up_ ," he said, annoyed by that undefined feeling and vicious with it.

Joji hummed. "You sure that's what you want me to do?"

He walked off, leaving Billy to his chagrin.

 

The whack on the head bothered him for longer than he was willing to admit, making him light sensitive for a while and prone to nausea and sudden, sharp headaches. It was a good thing that the weather held fair, so that there wasn't anything his watch couldn't handle aloft without him and thus no reason for anybody to conclude that he was avoiding going into the rigging. By the time they returned to Nassau, the worst of it had passed.

The slow progress on the _Walrus_ whenever they were in the bay was the only thing that could give him any degree of lasting satisfaction. The gradual restoration of the ship to its former glory was as close to a pleasure as Billy felt himself capable of, and also a very convenient reason to spend the vast majority of his time while they were in the bay aboard the _Walrus_ overseeing the work.  

 

"Saw your work on the transom as I rowed in," Flint nodded, having come aboard to inspect. "She's finally looking more like a ship than a wreck."

Billy hummed, looking around. At the current pace there was about a month more work to be done — if they were lucky and the material they needed could be found. So far they'd concentrated on the hull and hadn't even started on the masts and the rigging yet. The ship needed new topmasts, and spars that size didn't grow on New Providence. If the shipment of wood they'd ordered wasn't going to arrive soon, they might have to resort to sailing up the coast of the Americas until they could find suitable spars — and a safe place to make landfall — themselves.

"Have you thought about who you want for your crew yet?"

It took a few moments to register, and Flint added, "I'll let you take your own watch, if they want to come. They'd make a decent core for a new crew."

"You… want me to Captain her?"

Flint looked at him like he was an idiot. "Who else? I need somebody competent in charge if she's going to be any use protecting Nassau."

Billy had no idea how he felt about this idea, let alone what to say.

"There's time before she's ready to sail, but give it some thought," Flint finished before he left.

Billy had vaguely been aware of the plan to use the _Walrus_ in Nassau's defense, ready when the Spanish would surely come for the _Urca_ gold, or when the English came for their colony. He just hadn't considered that Flint had a specific role for Billy to play in that plan. He hadn't really considered captaining the _Walrus_ in anything but the most abstract terms, but even then he had assumed he would sail the _Walrus_ as a pirate ship, as a hunter. Perhaps what Flint had in mind was something closer to home, more defense oriented. He would have to think on it, and get more information out of Flint.

_Would you ever give it up?_ Abby had asked him once, drunk on Madeira wine. _If the right sort of other life came along?_

Standing in defense of the island, of their nascent pirate state, was still more or less piracy, but likely more stable than any other option, more nights at anchor in the bay. He had his share of the _Urca_ gold as well, and if he was to be a captain—

It was a strange and particular kind of pain, to think about how different things might have been if he could have met Abby for the first time now, with some kind of a life to offer her, and knowing her father's true colours.

_It's always easiest to trim your sails to the storm that's already passed_ , Gates used to say. It was no more or less ridiculous than any other scenario of a life with Abby Billy's mind had dreamed up, and he wondered, as February gave way to March, if he would ever be free of this ache in her absence.

 

A week or two later, Billy was supervising the transfer of their latest prize haul to the warehouse when Miss Guthrie caught his eye, beckoning him over with a tilt of her head. As he crossed the distance to her, he wondered if this was about his friendship with Vane, and if it was, how to tell her to leave him out of it without endangering either crew's on-going business with her.

"Is Flint coming ashore?" she asked when he reached her, and Billy relaxed slightly and nodded.

"Should be, De Groot offered to take the first rota. But I think the Captain is planning to come ashore with the rest of the crew later this evening. Do you need to get a message to him quicker than that?"

"Mrs. Barlow asked that I get a message to you both, actually, as soon as you were ashore. She'd like to speak with you up at the homestead."

"The both of us?" Billy asked, surprised and perplexed by that.

Miss Guthrie watched him seriously for a long moment before saying, "There was a letter for her, from Savannah, arrived at the tavern earlier this week."

"Savannah?"

"Where her niece lives?" Miss Guthrie prompted.

"Oh, right," Billy said, shaking his head a little. "I'd forgotten."

"You'd forgotten her niece?" she said, narrowing her gaze at him.

"That she lives in Savannah," he replied, putting effort into keeping his tone friendly. In fact he wasn't sure he'd ever known that Miss Abby had gone to Savannah, but he supposed Max would be privy to that sort of information. "Do you know what was in the letter?"

Miss Guthrie shook her head. "Mrs. Barlow took it home with her after our last luncheon, then came back to town the next day to ask that I speak with you and Flint. Whatever it is, it's news."

Billy nodded. "I'll let the Captain know, we'll head up there once the crew is settled."

It had been more than five months since Charles Town, and he knew that her father would have made quick work of introducing her to Society, to eligible men. Mrs. Barlow had told Miss Abby not to write for fear of further damaging her reputation and prospects. Something must have changed, for her to be writing now. It was hard to imagine that this letter could be anything but news of her marriage, either recent or impending. Perhaps that explained the move to Savannah.

For a moment he considered passing the message along to the Captain but declining the invitation himself. Flint could tell him the gist of it later, if it was truly something he needed to know. Billy knew he'd barely managed to be more than civil to anyone other than Vane in weeks, and if Mrs. Barlow meant for them to toast Miss Abby's happy news—

But she wouldn't do that, he didn't think. Mrs. Barlow understood his feelings about Abby, he thought, understood what had happened during those weeks they were living under her roof, and would understand how such news would hurt him to hear. If it _was_ just news of Miss Abby's marriage, surely Mrs. Barlow would have let him hear it through Flint, rather than inviting him to the place where they'd been so happy, to read it in Miss Abby's own handwriting.

Which meant there was at least a good chance that her letter was about something else entirely. Something that had so concerned Mrs. Barlow, she wanted him and Flint to hear it just as soon as possible — and something serious enough to prompt Abby to write in the first place. With that thought firmly in mind, he set to securing provisions for the watch staying aboard, and then went along on the boat with the supplies over to the _Revenge_ to talk to Flint.

 

It was nearing sunset by the time they reached the homestead, and Billy had been stewing in his own thoughts for several hours by then, convinced in one moment that the letter could be nothing but an announcement of Miss Abby's marriage, with perhaps a note for him if he was lucky, and in the next moment that it must be news of a fouler sort, some misfortune that had befallen her.

"Oh, you're both here, I'm glad," Mrs Barlow greeted them from the porch as soon as they approached. She seemed full of restless energy, a small bundle of letters clasped into one hand. She waited for them to see to their horses, then led them inside, where Dulce was dozing by the fire.

Flint had been tense on the way to the homestead, and they hadn't really talked — Billy hadn't really wondered until now what the Captain might be expecting, too far into his own head. The Captain held out his hand, and Mrs. Barlow gave him the letters with an apologetic glance to Billy. Flint's eyes skimmed over the elegant, curly handwriting while Mrs Barlow poured tea.

It felt like an eternity, watching the Captain read, watching his face for any signs of a reaction, any signs that it was bad news and what kind. When finally he was done, he wordlessly handed off the letters to Billy, turning to Mrs. Barlow, who immediately stepped into his arms. Billy looked away, down at the bundle of papers in his hands, and quietly let himself out on the porch to allow the Captain and Mrs. Barlow speak, and to read the letter in private.

He tried not to think about last summer, how happy they'd been, but it was almost easier than facing the reality of the eerie silence in a place he so associated with her voice. No matter what this letter contained, perhaps he was better off remembering the time they'd had, rather than focusing on everything they couldn't have.

Billy turned the letter over in his hands, staring down Abby's elegant handwriting. Whatever was in this letter certainly didn't seem good. Mrs. Barlow hadn't given him much to go on, but she'd seemed upset, a combination of worry and determination that—

He knew he was stalling, afraid of what he would find in the letter. Taking a deep breath, he unfolded the pages and forced himself to read.

_5 March 1716_

_My Dear Miranda,_

_A hundred letters I must have written by now, and remembering your warnings, burned each of them. Even knowing you would not read them, the feeling of confiding in you of my situation helped somewhat. This one however I will try to send to you, as clarification for the attached earlier written letter that contains little context._

_For the first three months after leaving your company, I lived in my father's house in Charles Town, and was introduced to whatever Polite Society (such as it is) can be found there. It has been… I tried to remember your advice to find like-minded people, thinking that surely there must be some here, but have so far found no allies. My 'misadventures' are foremost on people's minds, if not necessarily on their lips, and I still find myself regarded with a mix of wariness and pity. There was a young lady not far from there I had hoped to make my friend, but we were barely allowed to exchange more than polite greetings; evidently she had to be be shielded from my influence._

_Eight weeks ago, just after Christmas, my father informed me that I would be accompanying a visiting landowner, a Dr. Ashford, to Savannah. The man suggested that Mrs. Ashford would be delighted to host me and introduce me around Society in Savannah._

_And so here I am. Mrs. Ashford was not exactly delighted to hear of the task for which she'd been volunteered, though she treats me as kindly as her Christian duty prescribes her. It was hoped that my 'misadventures' would have less impact down here, where nobody saw me delivered by a pirate ship, but if anything my experiences here have been more disheartening. The enclosed letter will explain in more detail._

_All is not without hope though, and I think it will not be more than a year to establish myself a little place of my own and means to support it. I think back with fondness on our time together, on the hospitality you offered, on the many things you taught me, not the least of which was how to stand on my own two feet._

_Please convey my fondest greetings to our friends in town._

_Your friend,_

_Abby_

Billy re-read the final paragraph, catching again on _establish myself a little place of my own and means to support it_. That certainly didn't sound as though she was writing with news of a wedding, but he still wasn't quite sure what it did mean — or what had upset Mrs. Barlow. Confused and curious, he turned to the second letter, tucked behind the first, and felt his heart kick painfully at the opening line.

_4 March 1716_

_Dear M—_

_There is an offer. After all this time, at last there is an offer for my hand that is worth considering. Mr. Blake is the second son of a plantation owner. They are situated inland near Savannah, with large grounds and a beautiful house, I am told. Mr. Blake is twenty and six, not unpleasant to look at, and has a polite manner about him. This is an offer of substance, not unlike what my father must have been thinking of when he requested that I set sail — though doubtlessly he was thinking of a first son. There is no real reason not to accept it with alacrity, and indeed, Mrs. Ashford is urging me to do so immediately, as nothing like it is likely to come again._

_Is it not ironic that my time with pirates has ruined me for this kind of life after all, only not in the way that everyone assumes? Mr. Blake is kind to me, has made no mention of my 'misadventures,' and might even make a pleasant kind of husband._

_The reason I am hesitating about accepting is because his family keeps slaves. And not only do they keep slaves, but the manner in which Mr. Blake speaks of them… It is very difficult to stomach such talk. The prospect of living on such a plantation, where people are spoken of and treated like cattle… I do not believe that even the last good offer of marriage will make that palatable. I can not un-meet Joshua and Bosedeh and Eme and Babatunde. I can not un-experience their kindness and their humanity, and the prospect of living in a place, and among people, who would treat them as less than human is— Well, I began this letter feeling unsure if I should accept, but writing this has, as with so many of my letters to you, helped clarify my mind._

_..._

_I have refused. As I was writing the above, Dr. Ashford had me summoned to the study, where Mr. Blake was also. Dr. Ashford notified me that he approved of the offer for my hand in my father's stead, since he surely would give his blessings, and that only the formalities remained._

_It would have been so easy, Miranda! They barely required anything from me at all. I believe a mere lack of protest would have sufficed, so confident were they that their decisions were the only relevant ones in this situation. And for long moments I might have gone along with it, the last spasms of my childish dreams of a husband and a household twitching in their lingering deaths. _

_I thought again of the people I have met, and their scarred backs, and found it within me to refuse with as much steadfast conviction as I could muster._

_Mr. Blake and Dr. Ashford were obviously dismayed by this show of character, and the remainder of the encounter was unpleasant, to say the least._

_Since refusing this offer will, I believe, mean the last of my opportunities for a marriage here in the colonies, I do believe I have managed to become a spinster at the age of twenty. You know, I think, how we are taught to dread that word, that life, and I always have. The prospect of living in somebody else's household, barely tolerated — that is something to dread indeed._

_But my stay with you has taught me that it need not be so. I can find a sweet little cottage, and I could fill it with books, I could get a dog. Or maybe cats. Perhaps both. I can forge a role for myself in the community, find a way to make myself useful to my neighbours — I have recently met the local midwife, perhaps she will allow me to apprentice with her. I can garden and read and occasionally go to town, much like you do. I can exchange letters with my friends in London, and with you. It might not be the life I thought I would have, but I will be in charge of my own destiny, and that will be enough._

_I had not initially planned to send this letter, as you have warned me not to, but at this point a letter to New Providence will hardly hurt my prospects more than my actions today have already done. I will take the risk. I wish for you to know how much your wisdom had helped me through, these past five months. Imagining telling you about difficult or hurtful conversations made them more bearable, picturing how we might scoff together at small-minded and rude Society. The things you taught me will help me through the daunting phase that begins now, and I will write you as soon as I have established myself an address of my own where I may safely receive mail._

_Your friend,_

_Abby_

Billy had to read it again from the beginning, now that he had context, now that he could calm his racing pulse. He couldn't help the rush of pride and affection that flooded him at her words, so clearly hers he could nearly hear her voice. She'd turned down this Blake fellow, knowing it was her last shot at the life she'd be raised to expect and want, and Billy was glad of it for a long list of reasons other than how much it hurt to think of Abby marrying anyone.

He'd known she was courageous from the first moment he met her, but this was something else, standing up to the establishment on principle alone, with no one to back her up, knowing what it would cost her. It meant, too, that she'd benefited from her time with the _Revenge_ crew, come away from their company with more appreciation for the plights of others. If that had ruined her for Society, well, Billy had a hard time regretting it.

There was no doubt in his mind that she would take to midwifery as readily as she had to sailing and gardening, and the hope and determination clear in her words made him smile for what felt like the first time in months. Her vision for a life of her own was so similar to the dreams of her he'd had since Charles Town, it twisted at something in his chest to think of her in a sweet little cottage full of books. He was happy for her, but—

For just a moment he let himself imagine it, what life might be like if Miss Abby were to establish herself on New Providence instead of in Savannah. It had hung over them, before, the knowledge that she had to return to her father and take back up the life she was meant to have, marry some Society type. Now that all seemed to be off the table, through her own choice, and she had made no mention of returning to Charles Town again. The things that had kept them apart before held no significance anymore, nothing standing between them now but four hundred miles of open ocean. He needn't even convince the Captain, he supposed; it wouldn't be long until the _Walrus_ was seaworthy again.

He could hear the Captain and Mrs. Barlow talking inside, their voices if not their words, and he could tell Mrs. Barlow's agitation had only grown. Sighing, he folded the letters into their little bundle again, then stood and made his way back inside.

"I know how happy it made you to have her here, Miranda," Flint was saying, his tone almost gentle, as Billy let himself back inside and closed the door quietly behind him. "Hell, I wish her nothing but happiness, you know that. But we can't do it. The risk is too great. I'm sorry."

"I don't give a fluttering _fuck_ about the risk!" Mrs. Barlow burst out, sharp and with a precise enunciation that gave the curse enough impact to make Billy flinch.

The Captain was clearly not unaccustomed to Mrs. Barlow cursing though, and didn't look fazed.

"My sweet, remember how praisingly she wrote about us to her father," he said only, low and kind.

Mrs. Barlow whirled away to stare out the window, taking deep breaths.

"Peter would connect her disappearance to us if the _Revenge_ was seen anywhere near the coast," she stated after a few long moments, once again sounding cool and distant. "And he knows we are on New Providence."

Billy felt his vague idea of taking the _Walrus_ there crumble. The _Walrus_ was as connected to Flint and to Nassau as the _Revenge_ , if not more so.

"He'd have the Navy in the bay so fast there'd barely be time for a reunion," Flint said, voice not unsympathetic. "And even if the risk to Nassau were not a factor, how would such a thing be done? We've no way to safely communicate with her. If we sent a crew to her door to collect her, it wouldn't exactly be a free choice. What if we went there, with all the risks of taking a ship that close to those eager to hang us, and she didn't actually want to come? Would she even feel able to say so?"

Billy sighed, hearing the Captain voice his exact concerns and a few more to boot. Mrs. Barlow's shoulders slumped in acceptance, but she turned to Billy, seeking his opinion, the one last bit of hope in her eyes difficult to face.

He shook his head. "I hate to say it, Mrs. Barlow, but I think Miss Abby would agree with the Captain. There'd be so much risk involved, not just to our crew but to everyone on this island. She wouldn't want that. She's not in danger in Savannah, not being forced into a marriage she doesn't want." _Thank fuck for small miracles_ , he thought privately. "She hasn't asked for us to come get her. In her letters she sounds… sad and lonely, but not without hope."

"If we are lonely in her absence, how much worse must it be for Abby, without any friends or allies?" Mrs. Barlow asked.

That hurt just to think about, Abby anywhere close to as unhappy as he'd been these last months, but he shoved it off for later, tried to think with the Captain's cool rationality, not the emotions churning in his chest. "Her letters also sound just like the brave and competent woman we got to know last summer," Billy said softly. "She has a plan for her life now, a life of her own making, and if anyone can pull that off, it's her."

"At least there's the possibility of future letters, once she's established herself," Flint added gently. "If she writes that she wishes to come to New Providence, we will find a way to get her here. Once she is no longer chaperoned, there will be a way that does not involve a crew in range of the noose and the Royal Navy sacking Nassau."

"It is small comfort," Mrs. Barlow said, turning back to the window, "to know that _someday_ might come, but for now Abby is out there facing the world alone."

Billy found he couldn't disagree with her.


	6. VI

Billy supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that Miss Abby's letter inspired a whole new round of nightly torment in his dreams. That half-formed hope that they might be able to go get her, to bring her to New Providence, played itself out over and over in his sleeping mind. He dreamed of finding her in Savannah, of sailing with her aboard the _Revenge_ again, of saving her from a bad marriage. Once, even, he dreamed of rescuing her from Charles Town as Flint began bombarding the city, Abby's hand clasped tight in his as they raced for the jetty.

 _It is small comfort to know that someday might come_ Mrs. Barlow had said, and as the days passed, Billy found that somehow hurt worst of all. Before, he had been so sure he would never see Abby again, but now the possibility existed in some nebulous _maybe someday_ , neither certain to happen nor certain to never happen. He hadn't done a particularly good job of moving on from her over the last five months, but now any chance of that seemed utterly shot.

And he knew that just because Miss Abby had turned down what she considered her 'last good offer of marriage' didn't mean that she would never get married, or remain unattached long enough for _maybe someday_ to arrive. While she sounded lonely in her letter, she had given no indication that she still felt for him what he felt for her, that she mourned his absence the way he did hers. _Please convey my fondest greetings to our friends in town_ she had written, but nothing more.

It was still as hopeless as it had ever been, made all the worse by that short moment when he'd truly let himself believe he might see her again.

 

The burning wreck slowly disappeared in their wake. Billy was on the quarterdeck with his gaze fixed on it, lost in thought, when Flint found him.

"Captain," he greeted him, more a soft grumble than anything.

"Did you have Howell take a look at that?" Flint asked, nodding to the bandage on Billy's arm.

He shook his head. "It isn't that deep."

"I know these last months have been difficult," Flint said, staring out toward the wreck shrinking behind them as well. "But you've started taking risks in battle that I cannot tolerate from anyone on my crew, least of all you."

"It's just a scratch," he said, shrugging it off.

"This time," the Captain replied. After a moment he added, "You're going to get yourself killed."

Billy snorted despite himself and shook his head. "Yes, Captain," he said with what little seriousness and respect he could manage, then started to turn away.

Flint caught him by the shoulder and commanded his gaze. "Let me be blunt, Billy: do not make me take that news to Miranda, do you understand me?"

It was the last thing he'd expected to hear, and it caught him off guard, the thought that his living or dying might matter that much. He'd come to like Mrs. Barlow, and he thought they had what might be deemed a sort of friendship, but— he thought about Mrs. Barlow alone in that house, without Miss Abby or the Captain to keep her company, thought of how much she had lost already.

Maybe it did matter.

He sighed. "Yes, sir. I'll be more careful."

 

When they returned to the bay a few days later, there had been a boy waiting for the _Revenge's_ boat to let Captain Flint know that he was awaited in the tavern. Apparently Mrs. Barlow happened to have been in town for their arrival, because Billy had seen the Captain ride off with her in the wagonette not long after. He was relieved that at least they seemed to be on speaking terms after their argument over Miss Abby's letter.

He supervised the unloading of the launch and then made his way to the tavern himself.

"Is Miss Guthrie here?" Billy asked Eme, holding up a stack of paperwork for their prize haul.

"In her office. You may go in," Eme nodded.

The door to the office was opened a crack, and as Billy neared he could hear voices from within.

"—so sad, I find it hard to know what to say."

"What she told us of the letter, I can see why."

Billy knocked lightly, unsure why Eme had sent him in if Miss Guthrie was in a meeting.

Eleanor opened the door to him, and waved him in despite clearly already having company. Jack, Anne and Max were sitting in a loose circle around Miss Guthrie's desk.

"Take a seat," she said, as she resumed her own behind the desk.

"Hey Billy," Jack said conversationally as he poured a cup of wine for him. "How's it going?"

Billy looked around the circle, confused how he'd gone from coming in to drop off some paperwork to being part of this... whatever kind of conclave it was.

He sat down in the one vacant seat, noting the empty cup still on the table beside it. Was this were Mrs. Barlow had spent her time waiting for the Captain to come ashore?

"We were just talking about how Mrs. Barlow has been," Max said to him. "Would you not agree she has been in low spirits?"

Billy stared at her, unsure what to say. His own mood had been so low for so long that he honestly hadn't taken much notice of the people around him.

"Since the letter from her niece arrived," Max clarified.

"I think before the letter, Mrs. Barlow was trying to keep hope that Miss Abby might find a good husband, somebody who would be an ally to her. So that she might build a life for herself that she could enjoy," Miss Guthrie said. "But since the letter arrived, it's obvious that is not how things have turned out."

"Mrs. Barlow seems confident that Miss Abby won't lack for income," Jack pondered. "That she'll have a stipend from her father even if he is angry with her for refusing an offer of marriage."

"A man like that can't be seen to let his only daughter starve," Miss Guthrie said wryly.

"That only means things ain't dire for her," Anne said. "Not that she'll be happy, or anywhere close to it."

Billy sighed, the picture of Miss Abby in a little cottage forming in his mind as easily as ever. A life of her own making, but a lonely life — more so even than Mrs. Barlow, who at least had Captain Flint as her ally and confidante, even if not often or long.

Around him the conversation continued, the women sympathising with Miss Abby's position.

"...tempting to sail up there and get her," Jack mused, and Billy jerked up his head, startled to attention.  

"Did Mrs. Barlow say that?"

"Not in so many words."

"She made it clear Captain Flint considered it out of the question," Miss Guthrie explained.

Jack shot Billy an incredulous look. "Are you saying you haven't thought about it?"

All attention was on Billy all of a sudden, and he folded his arms defensively, feeling put on the spot.

"We know you care for Miss Abby," Max said, more gentle than Billy could stand.

"I just—" he drew a deep breath. "What if she— I mean, it wouldn't exactly be—"

He fell silent, stomping down on the urge to get up, to pace, maybe even to leave the room all together. Instead he downed his cup of wine in one swig and poured himself another.

Everybody was still looking at him.

"I don't think it's— realistic," he finally settled on.

"I can't believe you, of all people, are the one saying it can't be done," Jack said.

Billy shook his head. "Flint made good points. There's no sense in trying for this if it'll just end up getting us killed. Or worse, hurt Miss Abby. It's not that I don't _want_ her back, the risk is just too great."

"What objections did Flint raise, exactly?" Eleanor asked, watching Billy with a calculating expression.

"Well, for one, the _Revenge_ can't go anywhere near Savannah. The ship is too well-known in the area, it'd be obvious we were the ones who took Miss Abby. And then her father would follow through on his threat to send the Navy to Nassau."

Anne Bonny snorted. "So don't take that stupid barge. There are other ships."

"Couldn't be the _Walrus_ or the _Colonial Dawn_ either, they're too well-known there too. But alright, say we take another ship," Billy said, "and we get to Savannah without being recognised. Then what? The lot of us go ashore and ask Miss Abby if she wants to leave with us? It'd look like a kidnapping by pirates, and again it'd be obvious who took her. Even if we can get to Savannah safely, we can't go ashore."

"You cannot," Max said, sounding thoughtful, "but perhaps Mrs. Barlow could…"

Anne looked to her, eyebrows raised. "What are you thinking, some kind of stealth mission?"

"I do not know that stealth is what is required in this situation," Max replied. "Perhaps something more artful — someone with enough status that the people of Savannah do not question her right to do as she pleases."

"I don't like the idea of sending Mrs. Barlow in there unprotected, and Flint sure as shit wouldn't," Billy said.

"A high-born lady would never travel so unaccompanied," Max said. "She would have an entourage, a maid, a traveling companion, footmen, any number of people who might be… inconspicuously armed, should trouble arise. But I believe we should be able to get away without incident. A kidnapping need not look like a kidnapping."

"Pose as Society people to get Abby out of Savannah?" Miss Guthrie asked. "Would that even work? Surely her guardian wouldn't just let her go with somebody?"

"With careful planning, a tactical application of Societal pressures, perhaps they would," Max said.

"Billy's right though, we couldn't take the _Dawn_ ," Anne said, clearly thinking the suggestion through. "Featherstone's told too many stories about how they used to hunt along the coast there all the time."

"And she'll be laid up for another month for renovations, if not more," Jack said. "Besides, the crew's hard to motivate for much of anything, right now. They've got money to spend."

"Featherstone's on a holiday with Idelle," Max said with amusement.

"I can't believe you are all so willing to even consider this," Billy said. "Jesus, even Vane, of all people."

"Charles? What did he say?" Miss Guthrie asked.

Billy huffed a wry breath. "That we ought to just go get her. As if it were that easy."

Jack looked thoughtful.

Max and Anne exchanged a serious look. "We would need to discuss this with Mrs. Barlow," Max said. "But I do not think she would need much convincing."

Billy shook his head. "Flint will never agree to something like that, and if he said no, going behind his back would be that much more difficult."

"Ask for forgiveness, not permission?" Jack said sardonically.

"Are you saying Mrs. Barlow would need Flint's permission?" Miss Guthrie said with amusement. "Because she does not seem like that kind of woman to me."

"Permission? No," Max said dismissively. "But Billy is right, this would be so much easier to handle without managing Captain Flint's objections as well. And if Mrs. Barlow were to be agreeable to such a plan and all it entails, Flint need not play a role at all. It might be easier to keep him in the dark until the rescue is accomplished."

"Good luck with that," Billy said, feeling his mood drop again. "It'd be close to three weeks there and back, plus whatever time ashore playing Society types. Keeping Flint unawares for _that_ long seems unlikely, especially if we came back from a hunt and he found Mrs. Barlow absent."

He could only imagine the explosion _that_ would cause, and Flint's eye would fall on him first, whether he actually had anything to do with it or not.

"What's a good quartermaster for, if not convincing his captain to take just _one_ more prize before heading home?" Jack asked.

Billy shook his head. "It's a long-shot, is all I'm saying. With a lot of moving pieces, unknown risks, and the possibility of Flint finding out… plus you don't even have a ship. I just don't see it happening, is all."

Or rather, he didn't want to think too hard about how it might possibly happen, knowing it was all theory, knowing it would come to nothing. He didn't want to have any part of this treacherous twitch of hope. His dreams didn't need any more ammunition than they already had.

"We will see," Max said only, giving Anne another weighted look, and changed the subject.  

 

Once their prize haul was delivered to the warehouse and provisions for the crew seen to, Billy threw himself back into work on the _Walrus_ , trying hard to forget what he had heard in Miss Guthrie's office. After taking several healthy prizes, the crew was happy to take a week or more in Nassau, spending their hard-earned coin, which suited Billy just fine, with the _Walrus_ to focus on. The slow progress in bringing the ship back to her former self felt maybe like he was rebuilding his own former self, a self who had been happy with the life he lived.

Whenever he thought of Miss Abby and his dreams of what might have been, he tried hard to recast the situation as a story, something he might have read in a book. Some convoluted romance where two people, separated by circumstances, eventually had a chance at happiness. Where lack of contact always had an explanation other than 'the other person just doesn't care'. A fantasy about two fictional people.

He didn't always succeed, but it made things a little easier to bear.

 

The _Revenge_ had been back in Nassau for almost two weeks when Vane appeared while Billy was having a morose drink on his own in the tavern. The _Revenge_ crew, knowing they'd soon be at sea again, had gone to the inn and the brothel, more than happy to leave their ill-tempered Quartermaster to his drinking.

Vane clapped him on the shoulder, cheerfully ignoring Billy's glare, and claimed a seat at Billy's previously blissfully lonely booth.

"Alright. So. We're going to need you to keep Flint out for four to five weeks to give us a good window."

Billy just stared, frowning, trying to figure out if there was some previous context or conversation that made sense of this opening. Maybe a conversation while he'd been drunk? But it'd been weeks since he and Vane had last gotten that drunk, so that seemed unlikely.

"What? Window?" he said finally, his brain feeling sluggish and rum-addled.

"While we go to Savannah," Vane said as if that was obvious. "Better that Flint doesn't know Mrs. Barlow went until she's safely back here."

He had to be hearing this wrong.

"What."

Vane clapped him on the shoulder again, grinning.

"Come on man, keep up. We need Flint to stay at sea for at least a month, longer would be better. It'll take us that long to go get your girl and be back here."

"She's not my girl," he said automatically, still processing the words. They were… going to Savannah? "What about the Navy? Ashe knows where we are. And what if she doesn't want to come? How are you even going to get her— this is a _terrible_ idea."

"Too late, Anne has already had her dress fittings," Vane grinned. "She's chomping at the bit. You don't want to deny her the chance to wear that frock, now do you?"

When Billy just stared, Vane conceded with a grin, "Well okay, it might be more Max who is excited about that."

"Are you taking the _Ranger_?" Billy burst out, ignoring that specific weirdness in favour of the overwhelming absurdness of whatever they were up to. "How did you convince your crew to go for that?"

"Healthy transport fee," Vane waved it away. "She hasn't been up there in years, and we've just repainted, so she looks a bit harder to identify."

He reran the conversation thus far. Wait.

"Wait, are you taking _Mrs. Barlow_ on the _Ranger_?"

" _Yes_. That's why we need you to keep Flint at sea for a while."

Oh Jesus Christ, Mrs. Barlow sailing on the _Ranger_. Vane's crew wasn't what it had been, some of the less savoury folk gone and some of Billy's recruitment suggestions were working out all right, but still.

Flint would _kill_ Billy if he knew he'd instigated a scheme that involved Mrs. Barlow on the _Ranger_. He should cut this off at the pass. He really should talk Vane out of pursuing this.

_It'll take us that long to go get your girl and be back here._

They were going to Savannah _to get Miss Abby_. This was a _terrible_ idea.

What if it worked out, though? What if Mrs. Barlow was safe enough on the _Ranger_. But what if they did succeeded in getting Miss Abby and bringing her back with them. What if by some miracle Flint didn't kill Billy.

He'd said goodbye to her, fully expecting never to see her again, had tried his damnedest to ignore the nebulous possibility of _maybe someday_...  What would it be like if she returned to New Providence? His fantasy painted a picture of her falling into his arms, but he dismissed that. Wouldn't there be… time, though? A chance to build something between them, to let it develop without a pending separation hanging over their heads? He had money, now. Not to offer her the kind of life a rich gentleman might have, but enough to establish a home, a life on the island.

And even if it didn't work out between them, if she turned out to want someone or something different, he still wanted her out of a situation that seemed to be making her, from the tone of her letter to Mrs. Barlow, desperately unhappy.

That was worth the risk of Flint's anger. Probably.

Maybe he could claim he hadn't taken Vane seriously? It did sound as if the plan was well underway.

"Flint is going to murder both of us," he predicted.

"Nah, Mrs. Barlow won't let him," Vane said easily. "If you think that Lady is going to allow Flint to speak of her as if she were a sack of tobacco I brought aboard my ship, as if she wasn't front and center in the organisation of this expedition and responsible for her own decisions, perhaps you met a different woman than I did. Since I fully intend to bring Mrs. Barlow and Miss Abby safely back to Nassau, I am already looking forward to witnessing that conversation."

Billy just stared at him.

"What?" Vane shrugged with a wide grin. "It's not every day I get to see somebody threaten to cut off Flint's tonker and not die. It'll be worth the trip just for that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends the middle portion of Billy and Abby's story. It's been a bit of a depression-slog, both for Billy and for us, but the best is still to come! Join us in 2018 for Setting The Stormsails, in which all of our leads will finally get their happy endings. Thank you all so much for following this story and for all your comments!


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